


Trading Faces

by PrettyMissKitty



Series: Misadventures of the Baby BatBros [5]
Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Body Image, Bodyswap, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Cassandra Cain is Black Bat, Child Neglect, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Jason Todd is Red Hood, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stephanie Brown is Batgirl, Tim Drake is Red Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-04-30 16:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14501487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyMissKitty/pseuds/PrettyMissKitty
Summary: It's been 5 years since Jason died.It's been 4 years since he came back with a chip on his shoulder and a taste for bloodshed.It's been 2 years since he started trying to detox from the Lazarus Pit and rejoin the Family.It's only been a year since his last major blow-up with the Family, 9 months since the last time he injured a fellow Bat severely enough to land them on the sidelines for over a week.So this working together with Red Robin thing is still new, still fragile, and Jason is not the only one struggling to cope with it. And when a routine disruption of a smuggling operation takes an odd turn, Tim and Jason find themselves with a whole new perspective to sift through.***AKA - that stand-alone Bodyswap (taken very seriously) Fic I promised.





	1. Jay / Tim

**Author's Note:**

> I'm making this part of my ongoing Bat Bros series because it's technically in the same verse, with Tim and Jason meeting and becoming friends while Jason was Robin, but it's really stand-alone enough to read without having read the other parts.
> 
> Jason is ~21 here, Tim is 19.
> 
> Bodyswap is rarely taken seriously in terms of the theoretical, physiological aspects of it - the way that muscle memory is a BODY thing, not a mind thing, and how the same is true of addictions and habits and even traditionally emotional things like butterflies and desire - and I feel that's a shame, since there's so much to explore with the idea. ESPECIALLY with the Bat Bros, Jay and Tim in particular.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason wakes up.
> 
> And the problems get ready to roll.

 

** Chapter 1 – Jay / Tim **

 

            When Jason wakes there are a few things he recognizes immediately as True.

 

            First, it’s Friday – the start of a special four-day holiday weekend for your average Gothamite working at a 9 to 5, and kind of an annoyance to the local capes who now have to deal with exponentially more raucous and crowded streets at night.

            Second, it’s Friday _morning_ – which Jason had thought would’ve been little more than a distant memory by the time he woke up after the night he’d had…

            Third, something is really fucking _wrong_.

 

            His muscles ache. His whole body does; his joints and muscles and the sinew that connects them, all of it _aches_ in a way that makes his jaw clench, a way that – while not exactly _surprising_ or inexplicable after the night he'd just had, is still… _alarming_.

            And there’s something wrong with his head, something _off_ – like his brain has gone all fuzzy or some bizarre shit. But the most pressing part of the head thing is the pain, something sharp and grating – with three distinct pinpricks acting as epicenters for the radiating grind of irritation: just above each temple and the worst one right between his eyes.

            Jason groans.

            The sound is an effort.

            It bubbles up his throat with a downright _prejudiced_ resistance and when it hits the air, the fucking thing sounds more like a god damn _wheeze_ than anything with vitriol behind it.

 

            Fabulous.

            Gotta check his fucking lungs out for whatever tear or puncture is leaking fluid into that shit and making his vocals go all wonky.

            Funny though.

            Doesn’t _feel_ like he’s breathing under strain.

            Honestly, his lungs feel pretty damn good, considering the hell that is the rest of him.

            So lungs are low priority. Low-ish. They probably shouldn’t be but Jason decides to just fuck it and roll.

            Continuing his self-assessment triage, Jason twitches his muscles and rolls his joints – running through the ten point check B’d drilled into him way back when.

 

            Feet. Attached, sore – possibly a blister on his fucking toe.

            How the hell he got _that_ one is beyond him.

 

            Ankles. Knees. Functional. Responsive. Attached to calves and thighs that fucking _burn_ to move, but probably are _not_ bleeding and most likely _would_ hold his weight if he forced it.

 

            Hips. Not bad.

            The left one feels like he’d banged it pretty hard, which he doesn’t remember doing, but he also doesn't remember _not_ doing – and both are functional and responsive, so no problem.

 

            Spine. _Hella_ fucking sore at every point a muscle touches, and it pops and crackles ominously, but nothing seems like the kind of shooting pain he should be _worried_ about.

 

            Neck and shoulders. Fucking _god_ the muscles in his shoulders burn. But they move when he asks them to, and there isn’t any creaking or grating inside the joints themselves. Even his neck and the points where it attaches to his skull ache, but again they respond right away.

 

            Elbows. Wrists. Fingers. All working fine. All the muscles around them screaming in protest when he moves them but they _do_ move.

 

            Without opening his eyes, because holy _fuck_ is the morning bright beyond his eyelids, Jason cautiously investigates his surroundings by touch.

            Fingertips brush plush carpet. Back arches against warm blankets. Cheek nuzzles into a rough pillow – couch cushion, most like, repurposed when the ‘decision’ was made regarding how the effort of getting his ass to a real bed was _not_ fucking worth it.

 

            He had just curled up on the floor where he’d sat last night with Tim to patch up the wound on his right shoulder – because Tim has deft little fingers and Jason couldn’t reach the cut to stitch it proper.

            The cut he basically couldn’t even feel anymore…

            Well, shit. Jason should get Tim to stitch up all his scrapes if he’s gonna do such bang up job with it. Legit. This is fucking great.

 

            Speaking of Tim, Jason thought the little fucker had curled up right next to him on the floor – But the tell-tale seep of warmth is absent from his side.

            Tim’s a fucking _furnace,_ so it’s definitely not just Jason overlooking the sensation of warmth because the sun is bearing down so strongly.

            With a regretful huff at having to face the day, Jason rolls onto his stomach and berates his arms into pushing him partly upright.

            As he manages to sit up an enticing smell appears beside his face – dark, and rich, and sharp with a sweetness that curls up warmly in the back of his throat. He practically shudders at the incredible smell – hands reaching blindly, but with perfect aim, for the mug holding the deliciousness of fresh coffee.

            He’s chugged half the mug before it occurs to him that it should be too hot to drink.

            And too bitter.

            Jason likes to play the bad boy image up, and he can force down a dark roast black if that’s his only recourse for caffeine, but that doesn’t mean he actually _likes_ the taste of it. And in _this_ safe house he doesn’t even keep a reasonable roast – the only kind of coffee currently stocked on _these_ shelves is Tim's unholy blend.

            But this… this is… _glorious._

 

            Jason frowns, damn near certain that there’s something obvious – something _important_ and obvious – flitting just beyond the reach of the brain cells finally starting to wake up inside his fucking fuzzed up head.

 

            “We have a problem,” Tim says grimly from somewhere by his shoulder. His voice is rough, husky – too deep in a way that makes Jason's wariness kick in. “A _big_ problem.”

 

            Jason hears the trepidation in his voice – fucking _feels_ the tension like it’s thrumming through his own body.

 

            Reluctantly, he cracks an eye.

 

            And the other.

 

            Stares blearily at his own face.

 

            Blinks.

 

            Yup. That’s his own fucking face, alright.

 

            The coffee cup in Jason's hands is nudged – reminding him of its presence. He drops his gaze to it, stares at the dark swirl of liquid… downs what’s left in four big gulps that he doesn’t even think to separate with any breaths.

            He's forced to suck in air afterwards, but the combined influx of caffeine and oxygen helps him get his head on straight.

            Sorta.

 

            “Tim?”

 

            His voice sounds weird – too high and almost keening.

 

            Another cup of coffee is placed into his hands, the empty one being pulled away without him being able to render any resistance.

            “Just drink that,” Tim whispers – still with that too deep, too rough voice.

            Jason can’t protest. He curls his fingers around his mug and sips the life-giving brew.

            Frowns.

            The coffee is delicious.

            The mug is warm where it's nestled in his hands – being hugged by too-pale fingers and set in palms smaller than Jason's have been for years.

            The headache is abating, which is fucking great but equally confusing. It means the headache is probably withdrawal… but Jason's careful with his caffeine. He tops off at like 4, maybe 5, cups a day, on average – usually tea, and frequently on the lower end of the caffeine spectrum. So, it just doesn’t make sense for him to be hurting this bad on a lack of coffee after just one night – 6 hours at most.

 

            Jason pulls his knees up and crosses his legs underneath him, trying to get himself into a position that better facilitates waking up for real. With how much his muscles hurt, he's not quite willing to stand yet, but he definitely needs to wake up more.

            Taking another sip of coffee, Jason looks up – still at his own fucking face – and says cautiously, “Define ‘problem'.”

            Jason's own face shoots him an apologetic look and holds up a mirror.

            “It’s easier to show you.”

 

            Jason is reluctant to look, too sure of what he’ll see, but he takes the mirror gingerly and angles it to reflect the face around his eyes.

            Sure enough, the pasty ass face reflected in the silver circle is Tim’s – complete with the bleary-eyed morning glare Jason has never seen him lose before his third cup of coffee.

            Jason heaves a sigh – heavy, but it sounds too light inside his too small chest.

 

            “Well, _fuck_.”

________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really pleased with what I have so far of this story, but I'm only a few chapters in and honestly am not entirely certain where it's going, (not to mention the fact that I'm doing a lot of fascinating research on physiokenetics, human consciousness, and the seemingly tenuous, but incontrovertible connection between mind and matter) so it's gonna be a slower posting process.


	2. Tim / Jay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim wakes up to find that things are not as he left them last night.
> 
> Questions get asked. Many questions.  
> Only a few with answers.
> 
> Answers Tim would rather not own up to giving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo, yeah, I'm posting two weeks early...
> 
> I knew I was going to cave when I started, but I'm still going to stay diligent about only posting one of these chapters for every two I post of Manners. I wanna get that one finished. ^_^
> 
> On to Timmy's multi-stage freak-out!  
> _

 

** Chapter 2 – Tim / Jay **

 

            When Tim wakes up, it is immediately apparent that something is terribly wrong.

 

            The first indication is that he _wakes up._

            Tim can’t remember the last time he woke up and actually felt _awake_ before his second cup of coffee. It was years ago, at this point… he’d probably still been in middle school, at most.

 

            So waking up and feeling awake before he even opens his eyes is not normal – and while this seems like a good kind of unusual, Tim knows better than to think it's not potentially a problem. In their line of work, ‘not normal’ is usually quite closely linked to ‘not good’.

 

            It does not take long for his hypothesis to be proven correct.

 

            As soon as Tim opens his eyes and tries to wriggle out of the burrito of blankets he'd gotten himself rolled up in, he realizes that he no longer _is_ rolled up. Another tick mark for the ‘unusual’ column. He’s laying sprawled out on the soft carpeting of Jason's safe house floor, with nothing but a thin knit throw to cover him, and he’s not cold.

            He’s able to push himself into sitting upright with almost no protest from his muscles – in fact, there’s only a vague soreness threading through his body, like he’d taken an entire afternoon off and then only done a basic patrol instead of running around all day and night for the last week to break open an illegal import case with Red Hood.

            Tim knows that yesterday had been incredibly successful and that normally after a night like that, he should be _aching_ with the repercussions of exertion… but he's not…

            There’s a couple of hotspots on his limbs that are probably budding bruises, but nothing too painful. The worst souvenir of last night’s adventures in an itch on the back of his shoulder – the healing prickle of a cut sewn up with antiseptic glue and biodegradable stitches.

 

            Which Tim almost dismisses.

 

            If the kind of exhaustion he _should_ have been feeling this morning was present, the oddity of it might not have even registered. Tim has gotten banged up more than enough for a new scrape not to be unusual – But being as awake and aware as he is currently… Tim can recall that _his_ shoulder didn’t get scraped up last night.

 

            _Jason's_ did.

 

            Jason's armor had kept the bullet from coming anywhere near the threshold of killing him, but being slightly-more-than-grazed by a supersonic lead projectile had still left a nasty split in his skin. Initially, he hadn’t let Tim know about it, but it affected how he'd grappled away from the scene of their little show down and it was bleeding rather profusely – enough to let the slickness shine under the low lights of Gotham's skyline. Enough to catch Tim’s attention.

 

            This working together thing is still pretty new for them, still pretty hesitant and fragile – fraught with unmarked boundaries.

 

            Tim hadn’t known how Jason would react to having him _insist_ on seeing to the injury himself, but he also hadn't been willing to compromise – the wound was at an odd angle that would have been difficult for Jason to adequately care for on his own, and even a much smaller wound could still be fatal if not properly disinfected.

            To Tim's tremendous relief – and more than mild surprise – Jason had agreed to let Tim treat him. He'd led Tim to a safe house he maintained and let Tim stitch up the shoulder before promptly falling asleep on the floor.

            Tim had considered going to the real bed waiting for him in Jason’s guest room, but by then he'd already let his muscles cool down too much while he'd sat on the floor stitching up Jason. He couldn’t have made it to the guest room if his life depended on it.

 

            Fortunately, it did not and Tim had been able to wrap himself in blankets from the couch and curl up within the inviting bubble of warmth that existed against Jason's broad side.

 

            He wasn’t too overly worried about the fact that Jason would probably not appreciate waking up _right_ next to the crazy little stalker / cling-on / side-kick that is Tim Drake, because he always woke up well before Jason did…

 

            Which is why he’s awake right now, awake and aware and noticing things that simply do _not_ bode well.

 

            He's not hurting from last night's adventures, he’s not acutely craving coffee, he’s not cold, and it’s not his _hip_ that feels injured like it should…

            Tim lets his gaze fall questioningly to land on Jason's sleeping form – except it’s _not_ Jason curled up next to him. It's _him_. Ice shoots down his spine and dread pools in his gut as he looks at his own face peeking out from a bundle of blankets.

            Tim’s first thought is that he’s dead and staring at himself as a disembodied ghost – stranger things have happened in their line of work – and Tim’s second thought is that Jason killed him in some sort of Lazarus relapse and isn’t here because he’s run off.

 

            But the evidence doesn’t support that.

 

            A relapse would have made Jason destroy the apartment, but the place is pristine. And if Tim were dead, he wouldn’t hurt – wouldn't have stitches that itched… at least not according to Jason's account of the limbo he’d found himself in post-death, but pre-resurrection.

            Jason hasn't said much about that period of time, but Tim’s pieced enough together from what he _has_ said to know that pain and soreness and itchiness don’t exist there.

 

            And neither does hunger – because _that_ is what the gnawing ache is, clawing at him from beside the dread in his gut.

 

            Tim decides to deal with the hunger first thing after he figures his situation out – possibly _as_ he figures it out, because it’s an ache like he’s never felt before and one that’s utterly impossible to ignore… it’s a scrabbling, grinding, chafing, _need_ that feels downright motivating.

            Between the hunger and his shoulder, Tim is developing another hypothesis. It’s one he doesn’t like very much – well, he kind of likes it better than his initial theory, because most things are better than being killed in his sleep by the person he's idolized for over a decade, but at least the dead theory made sense.

 

            A body swap theory… does not.

 

            It’s almost too trite and ridiculous to believe, and if that is genuinely what’s happened, it’s just one more implausible thing to file under ‘reasons the dead theory seemed so sane'.

 

            But when Tim stands up – or rather _attempts_ to stand up – the theory starts to feel less ridiculous. The limbs he is currently in control of do _not_ behave like the ones he’s used to – for starters, the twitch response is much more dramatic, and far more easily triggered.

            Tim finds himself swinging wildly across the apartment – managing to stay upright, but only by the skin of his teeth as his muscles’ jerk reactions fling his limbs about as if he’s fighting phantoms. The ingrained fluidity of muscle memory is all that keeps him balanced.

 

            It’s a testament to Jason’s plush carpeting that he doesn’t wind up thundering about like a herd of elephants. Even so, Tim is rather surprised to find that Jason sleeps straight through Tim’s wild flailing and muffled yelps.

 

            It takes a minute – a _long_ minute, to be honest – but Tim does manage to learn the tolerances of his new, hopefully temporary, limbs.

            He carefully makes his way over to the kitchen and peers into the mirrored hexagon tiles of Jason's backsplash. Where Jason's face blinks back at him.

 

            _Frack._

 

            Yeah, this is gonna be a problem.

            On the upside, the theory that he’s dead is pretty much entirely disproved.

 

            At a loss of what else to do, Tim makes coffee.

            Because coffee _always_ helps.

 

            There’s coffee in the cupboard above the coffee maker and Tim can reach it easily – with the advantage of Jason’s height to help him, the container is on a shelf just below eye-level.

            There’s plenty of his favorite brand stocked, even though Jason doesn’t keep this safe house very well supplied. Tim knows that it’s because of how public – relatively speaking – this place is: all of the Bats, and most of their friends, and a good portion of people they would never otherwise associate with outside the Cape Community know about this address.

 

            So it’s really just stocked with the kinds of thing the most regular visitors require: Tim’s coffee, Dick’s ridiculous cereal, hellfire spices for Cass, that superfood smoothie mix Babs and Steph accidentally got addicted to last summer, and extra clothes for all of them… but nothing _Jason_. Tim’s thought about it before, about how this place feels more like a hotel – or a time share at absolute best – than like a home, or even a safe house, to be honest.

 

            It’s like Jason’s personal pretend-house, a movie set he’s built to hold office hours with his friends and family before he can run off to be alone in a _genuine_ safe house.

            Tim’s thought about it before, but he never really understood that Jason felt it too.

            Really, _felt_ it – like a thrum of electricity, physical and tactile and _intense_.

            There’s a nervous energy running through the body Tim’s borrowing that tells him enough to know his _body’s_ instincts make him feel out of place here. This is a safe _enough_ space, but not a place his streetwise reflexes consider truly _safe_.

 

            The beep of the coffee maker pulls Tim from his thoughts.

 

            He fills a mug for himself and then one for Jason – because the Jason that is currently stuck inside Tim’s body is going to be waking up soon and he’s gonna be facing a _killer_ craving that Jason’s mind is not at all accustomed to dealing with.

            Thinking of problems and Jason and dealing with issues, Tim realizes that he’s gonna have to find some way to figure out how to explain this to Jason – or at least to get him on the same page as Tim currently is… Because Tim doesn’t have an explanation of _why_ , he just has observation of _what_ has happened – but that’s gonna be tricky enough to explain anyway.

 

            From the bundle of blankets on the floor in the living room, Jason groans.

 

            Tim peeks over at him as he wriggles free of the blankets and begins working through the injury check that Bruce had drilled into all of the kids that had ever come under his care.

            As Jason groans again, Tim cautiously makes his way over, coffee cup in hand. He hasn’t even taken a sip of it yet – the smell alone is enough to wake him up and make it feel like morning, and yet it’s not at all tempting for him to taste. In fact, this body is not particularly fond of the idea of ingesting it… Jason’s stomach makes an ominous gurgle as the thought crosses Tim’s mind to just drink the coffee anyway.

 

            Jason’s body wants food before it will tolerate anything like coffee.

 

            But Tim’s body _needs_ coffee. _Right_ _now_.

 

            Jason has pushed himself quasi-upright when Tim arrives at his side. His hands reach blindly for the coffee he smells and Tim carefully transfers over the mug he’s still holding. Jason sniffs at it cautiously, a bit of his own mind recognizing that something’s not quite right before it’s overridden by the aggressive _need_ of Tim’s body.

 

            “We have a problem,” Tim says quietly, trying to whisper to keep the shock of his altered voice to a minimum – it still sounds wrong to him. And to Jason, though his frown might be due to Tim’s words rather the voice saying them. “A _big_ problem.”

 

            Reluctantly, Jason cracks an eye.

 

            And the other.

 

            Blinks.

 

            Frowns.

 

            Blinks again.

 

            Tim nudges the coffee cup in Jason’s hands. He’s not anywhere _near_ being awake enough to deal with this yet.

 

            Jason stares down at the coffee like it holds the answers to the universe. As Tim watches him process out the fact that coffee will help, he’s reminded of the other cup he filled – still sitting on the counter in the kitchen. As Jason dives into finishing off his first cup, Tim darts back to the kitchen to grab him the second one.

 

            “Tim?”

 

            Hearing his own voice through Jason’s ears is a bizarre experience. Deeply unsettling.

 

            Tim switches out the empty cup in Jason’s hands for the fully one he’s brought over.

 

            “Just drink that,” Tim whispers – realizing that perhaps words are not going to be adequate explanation for their current conundrum.

 

            Tim darts away inelegantly again as Jason frowns into the second cup of coffee.

            He’s rummaging around in Jason’s bathroom as Jason struggles to wake up. When Tim makes it back to the living room Jason is sitting with crossed legs beside the bundle of blankets Tim had curled up in when they’d first settled down – only seven hours ago, at most.

            Jason is still frowning into his coffee when Tim kneels back down at his side.

 

            Jason lifts this coffee cup and downs half its contents in a few gulps. Tim watches his own face relax as the caffeine begins to truly hit him and suppresses a shiver at the eerie sight.

            Lowering the coffee cup just enough to stare suspiciously at Tim from over the rim, Jason demands, “Define ‘problem’.”

            Tim shoots him an apologetic look, and holds up the prize he’d seized from Jason’s bathroom: a handheld mirror.

            “It’s easier to show you,” he admits softly.

 

            Jason is clearly reluctant to look.

            It’s obvious that he’s put a couple of the incongruous facts together, drawn a few conclusions about what it all means that he’s not comfortable with facing… Gingerly, Jason takes the mirror and angles it at his face – at _Tim’s_ face.

            Sure enough, it’s not surprise that begins to furrow Jason’s brow.

            He’s already thinking way beyond that – considering the possible how’s and why’s and _what the frack they’re gonna do about it_.

            Jason heaves a sigh.

 

            “Well, _fuck_.”

 

            The sentiment sounds weird coming out of Tim’s throat, but Tim can’t deny that it fits – that it’s a wholly appropriate response to the current situation.

 

            “Yeah,” Tim agrees, heaving his own heavy sigh.

 

            It sounds as strange as hearing his own voice speak Jason’s words – _feels_ weird as it rumbles through a broad chest that’s over three times the size of the one he’s used to feeling.

 

            Jason is a really large human.

            Tim knew that before this, but like, _wow_. Jason is _massive_.

 

            “Okay, then,” Jason says, setting the mirror down and finishing off his second cup of coffee. He shakes his head a little and seems to accept the reality of their ridiculous situation without any childish resistance to the implausibility of it.

            Fixing Tim with a flat look that is just _so_ Jason – and feels so strange to see on Tim’s own face – Jason says, “So, if I’m really stuck in your body, care to explain why it feels like you got hit by a fuckin’ truck last night? I mean, I wasn’t baby sittin’ your ass all night but I’m pretty sure you walked the fuck home on your own shit feet.”

            Stomach curling inwards, Tim pulls at the empty coffee cup in Jason’s hands and pushes towards his feet. “It’s fine,” he promises, making for the coffee to nab a refill. “I’m just sore.”

 

            “I don’t fucking _feel_ fine, Tim,” Jason growls.

 

            He flails as he tries to get Tim’s limbs under control enough to stand. Jason wobbles a few times, but he gets the hang of it much faster than Tim had – which doesn’t make Tim feel at all inadequate or anything about being the subpar replacement Robin. He’s over that. He is.

            And it’s a thought that’s almost entirely true.

 

            Mostly, watching Jason relearn how to walk in only a few wobbly strides makes Tim even more impressed with Jason’s adaptability and resilience.

 

            Tim has another cup of coffee ready for him when Jason makes it to the kitchen’s island.

            He passes it over as quickly as he can without spilling a drop – a feat of control over Jason’s strength that Tim wouldn’t have been able to manage half an hour ago. He _is_ improving, he is and he knows that… he’s just doing it slower than Jason did.

 

            Par for the course, really.

 

            Jason snaps his fingers – Tim’s fingers – in front of his face.

            “C’mon, Timmers, pay attention,” Jason growls between sips of coffee. “I’m askin’ why the fuck you hurt so bad. I’ve been sore before, you little shit, and this ain’t just sore.”

            With a sheepish wince, Tim admits, “It kind of… _is_ …”

            “ _Tim_ ,” Jason growls again, somehow finding a way to push something like his usual snarly register out of Tim’s smaller frame.

 

            Uncharacteristically fidgety, Tim nervously taps his fingers across the countertop and avoids looking anywhere near Jason as he confesses, “For me, it _is_ just sore. And it’s normal, after a day like yesterday.”

            He can _feel_ Jason’s glare boring into him still, and its silent push to make him say more.

            Tim can’t stop his mouth from running.

            “It’s fine, though,” Tim promises. “Long days happen and it’s fine. I’ve had to work a lot harder to catch up to the rest of you; I’ve had to fight a lot harder to _keep_ up… It’ll go away.”

            Jason hangs his head and sips again at his coffee.

 

            “We’re not done talking about this,” Jason says after he’s finished draining the cup.

            Without giving Tim any warning – or any indication of his intentions – Jason pushes to his feet and strolls around to his usual side of the island as Tim shuffles backwards, doing his best to stay out of Jason’s way.

            “But you’re gonna need this soon,” Jason sighs. He reaches into the long skinny drawer just under the island’s countertop and pulls out a half-crushed carton of Marlboro Reds and a cheap little bic lighter. “I know you’ve never lit up before, but it’s not that bad.”

 

            Tim frowns. “How do you know I’ve never tried it, never even experimented?”

            “ ‘Cause you’re lookin’ at this shit like it’s gonna fuckin’ _eat_ you,” Jason snorts. He pushes the carton and the lighter across the island towards Tim and adds, “Don’t think about it, just let the muscle memory do the work.”

 

            Cautiously picking up the pack, Tim slips a cigarette free.

 

            He peeks up anxiously to see if Jason’s watching him and finds with tremendous relief that Jason’s already turned his back – is currently digging through his cabinets, muttering curses. A waffle iron appears on the counter and a box mix that Jason scowls at like its existence is a personal offence.

            As he watches Jason gather the ingredients for breakfast – a concept that makes his mouth water and his stomach clench with anticipation – Tim picks up the lighter and tries not to be horribly awkward as he lights up the cigarette.

 

            Jason is right.

 

            He’s never tried this.

            He’s never been _interested_ in trying it.

            Tim’s lungs are weak enough to make it unappealing, not to mention the fact that he already hardly eats as it is and coffee is at least a stimulant with _calories_ attached. The lethargy and idleness associated with cigarettes had also been irksome to consider – the bland ‘euphoria’ of a hit of nicotine would make him lose time he could’ve otherwise utilized to _accomplish_ _something_ … to check off a bullet point on his never-ending to do list.

 

            Besides, the Drake reputation would make it inexcusable to develop the finger stains or a lingering smoke smell – or the requirement for sneaking off for periodic smoke breaks.

            Coffee was the only drug Tim could publicly invest in without tarnishing the Drake Family name, and he could manage it without taking any time or attention away from whatever else he was doing, with no obvious or socially unacceptable side effects.

            And coffee facilitated the doing of other things, rather than stood as an experience in and of itself – which Tim’s tight schedule certainly appreciated.

 

            So Tim has never smoked before.

 

            He has no idea what he’s doing aside from a vague understanding of the physics involved. The cigarette sits naturally between Jason’s fingers, fitting neatly into a subtle notch in the muscle and bone like a pencil sits in Tim’s hand. It seems straightforward enough but Tim fumbles the hold as he tries to raise the cigarette to his lips.

 

            “You’re thinking too much,” Jason says without turning around from the bowl of batter being created in his hands. “Just shut your stupid little brain off. I’ve been smoking for over a decade at this point, and a pack a day the last two years – my body knows how to fuckin do this shit. Just watch me attempt to make waffles with your scrawny little stick arms and zone out.”

 

            Tim tries.

 

            He does.

            He _really_ does.

            And if he were in his own body, watching the _real_ Jason command his way around the kitchen, he might’ve been able to do it… he’d never been able to zone out easily before he’d first encountered Jason – even when stalking Dick and Bruce through Gotham, waiting around for them to swing in had been a fairly active, conscious pursuit for him.

 

            It was only after Jason became Robin that Tim started to find himself so distracted with just watching Robin move that he nearly forgot to take the pictures he had gone out to capture.

 

            And once he’d started interacting with _Jason_ … in the Drake kitchen, the Gordon living room, or any of the rooms at Wayne Manor, or anywhere they’d gone out on the town… Tim had started zoning out occasionally.

 

            Jason was just so… _affecting_. He commanded the attention of everyone in the room. His powerful influence was a mix of charming charisma and awe-inspiring aggression in a delicate, intricate dance – like a pair of figure skaters careening around a rink… controlled, yet not.

            And now that he’d been interacting with Jason again… post-death, post-Lazarus rehab… still with the extra slide unpredictability of the Pit’s influence, and the extra punch of vitriol and aggression, but also with more of the happy-go-lucky _Robin_ confidence and a newer kind of self-assurance… Tim has recently found himself enthralled… on more than just the rare occasion.

 

            But he isn’t watching Jason cook.

 

            He isn’t watching the powerful muscles of Jason’s back shift beneath his shirt as he reaches for something in a high cabinet. He isn’t watching Jason absently twirl a spatula or juggle eggs or balance an impossible number of little bowls or anything.

 

            Instead, Tim is watching his own scrawny frame shuffle about the kitchen – looking as awkward and ungraceful as he always feels. It’s worse somehow, _watching_ himself be a gangly mess, than it is to actually _be_ the mess… he can see it more clearly as an outsider than when he is distracted by the effort of existing in such uselessness.

 

            Tim sighs.

 

            And doesn’t realize that he’s taken a long drag, or maybe two, on the cigarette until his hand is reaching for an ashtray he hadn’t even consciously noted was there.

 

            As he taps off the ashes, Tim realizes that some of the jittery anxiousness is gone from his fingertips – that some of the frazzled energy has calmed into something like focus.

 

            It’s nice, almost.

 

            Relaxed and peaceful in a way Tim isn’t really sure what to do with.

 

            But that question ceases to matter as a massive plate is set in front of him and every drop of Tim’s focus zeros in on the unbelievable, devastating deliciousness of _food_.

 

________

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have another story brewing, that Tim-centric one that is going to follow Timmy Drake's path to actually achieve Robin status and such, and if I DO post that one, I will ensure that it is only updated once a month.
> 
> Priority list: Manners, Faces, Red Rising... but... I kinda really wanna post it...
> 
> EDIT: I caved and posted the first chapter of Red Rising. It's timeline-wise part three of the series, so that's where I put it, making THIS story part 4.


	3. Groundwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason addresses some of the most immediate issues.
> 
> And then he and Tim get down to work on figuring how what happened to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ZERO self-control...
> 
> SO I'm posting this early.  
> I may also be procrastinating on packing for a move... (partly because we are literally moving down two floors and across the hall because of my building's renovation schedule...). We have to be in the new place /tomorrow/, and my cat and I are just... staring at the shit we should be packing...
> 
> Yay, Tim/Jay cuteness?  
> _

 

** Chapter 3 – Groundwork (Jason) **

 

            It’s Tim’s face staring back at him in the mirror, and Tim’s long, pale fingers that are wrapped around his mug. And it’s Tim’s muscles that feel like they’re dying, like they’ve been kicked and beaten and run over by every antelope on the savannah.

            Jason can accept the body swap weirdness.

            Shit happens.

            _Weird_ shit happens

            And a lot of that weird shit happens to him.

 

            Like, seriously.

            This time five years ago, Jason was _dead_.

            He was frickin’ worm food, six feet under and already halfway to forgotten.

            And now he’s not.

 

            So.

            Somehow being squished into Tim’s little body?

            Yeah. Sure. Totally plausible.

            Whatever.

 

            The _how_ and the _why_ and the _what the hell do we do now_ parts of it were questions to be addressed after breakfast – except, Tim’s stomach churns unpleasantly at the vague mental mention of anything remotely food-like.

 

            “Okay, then,” Jason says, setting the mirror aside and finishing off coffee número dos before fixing Tim with a _look_.

            It’s weird to be throwing a flat glare at his own frickin’ face, but he can actually _see_ the Tim-ness of Tim sitting inside his bone structure, the shyness and hesitance and headspace pull-back that means Tim’s mind is working fifteen miles a minute… so it’s easier than Jason anticipated to glare at him.

 

            Because he can accept the body swap thing.

 

            And he can deal with the weird ass anti-hunger strike Tim’s stomach is going on.

            But the fact that he hurts so much right now… the fact that he fucking _died_ and woke up with less of this passive and evenly distributed _aching_.

 

            Yeah, no. _That_ is being addressed right the fuck now.

 

            “So, if I’m really stuck in your body, care to explain why it feels like you got hit by a frickin’ truck last night? I mean, I wasn’t baby sittin’ your ass all night but I’m pretty sure you walked the fuck home on your own shit feet.”

            Tim – behind Jason’s face – pulls further inward, embarrassed and awkward and almost… ashamed. Jason’s spent too many years cultivating an automatic blankness for Tim’s emotions to show through perfectly clear, and Tim’s spent a lifetime building up his own mask, so Jason’s not _entirely_ certain… but yeah, that looks a helluva lot like shame.

            “It’s fine,” Tim promises, pulling the empty coffee cup from Jason’s hands and then pushing to his feet. He skitters away – aiming for the coffee pot, Jason realizes – and avoids looking at Jason as he asserts weakly, “I’m just sore.”

            With an emphatic flail of disbelief that sets his muscles screaming, Jason growls, “I don’t fucking _feel_ fine, Tim.”

            Tim does not respond.

            He doesn’t even look back in Jason’s direction.

            Which means Jason will just have to go to him.

            It’s hard to stand.

 

            _Everything_ hurts, and Tim’s limbs are spindly and ridiculous – frickin Bambi on ice in action – but Tim’s worked very hard honing his balance and fine motor functions. It’s not natural, not an innate talent, but a consciously _trained_ habit that his body knows how to facilitate. Jason thinks he must’ve been a clumsy kid, and worked hard to correct it – because Jason fuckin knows how graceful Red Robin can be, knows that even by age twelve the kid was slick enough to sneak around without attracting _Batman’s_ notice. Jason has seen Tim tumble through existence with an elegance that looks effortless even when his brain is buried under the kind of exhaustion and coffee withdrawal that would kick most people six ways to Sunday.

            No natural habit or inclination could manage that.

            Dick fucking trips over his own feet when he’s too tired to focus, runs into frickin _walls_.

            This is a different kind of conditioning.

            This is muscle memory that goes beyond anything brain power could control or natural talent could facilitate, and Jason knows better than to fight it.

            He focuses on Tim – on where he wants to go – and just lets Tim’s body do what it will to get him over there.

            Tim is watching him when he reaches the island, passes a third cup of coffee to him by sliding it across the counter. He watches the mug slide smoothly into Jason’s hands with an expression that looks bizarrely _sad_ , and equally determined.

 

            Jason doesn’t wanna dig into that one yet.

 

            The achiness is still the most pressing issue.

            Jason snaps his fingers – Tim’s fingers – in front of his face.

            “C’mon, Timmers, pay attention,” Jason growls between sips of coffee. “I’m askin’ why the fuck you hurt so bad. I’ve been sore before, you little shit, and this ain’t just sore.”

            With a sheepish wince, Tim admits, “It kind of… _is_ …”

            “ _Tim_ ,” Jason growls again, vehemence making the word rumble through him.

            Tim’s fidgety – more than usual, more than just sheepishness or anxiety. He taps his fingers across the countertop and refuses to make eye contact. The eye contact thing is all Tim, and so is the uncomfortable _vibrate through the floor_ reaction, but the tapping… that’s…

 

            Oh. _Fuck_.

 

            Jason hasn’t had a cigarette in over eight, maybe ten hours, at this point.

 

            Tim is gonna _need_ a hit. _Soon_.

 

            Fuck.

 

            Jason tries not to let himself be distracted by that, by the pained curl of guilt that strikes him at the thought of making Tim light up, and focuses on Tim as he draws a shaky breath.

            Still not looking at Jason, Tim confesses, “For me, it _is_ just sore. And it’s normal, after a day like yesterday.”

            Jason’s stare turns into a glower.

            Because _fuck_ no.

            This shit is _not_ normal.

            And if it _is_ normal for Tim after a night like last night… well, _that’s_ a problem.

 

            Tim seems to feel the pressure of his silent stare and it sets his mouth running.

            “It’s fine, though,” Tim promises. “Long days happen and it’s fine. I’ve had to work a lot harder to catch up to the rest of you; I’ve had to fight a lot harder to _keep_ up… It’ll go away.”

            Jason hangs his head and sips again at his coffee.

            “We’re not done talking about this,” Jason says after he’s finished draining the cup.

 

            But Tim’s started picking at his fingernails. Picking in a way that will make them start to bleed in the next twenty minutes if it’s allowed to continue. Mental anxiety and physiological antsiness are not a good combo.

            Jason pushes to his feet in an abrupt decision to get this over with.

            He’s gotten enough of a hang of controlling Tim’s feet to stroll around the island as Tim shuffles awkwardly back – like he’s worried about taking up too much of Jason’s space.

            If he wasn’t focused on what he was doing, Jason would snort at the sentiment. This place isn’t Jason’s space. This is just a safe house to stash shit in when he’s got a tail he can’t lose. There’s nothing here of his for Tim to crowd – even while he is in Jason’s body, which is like four times bigger than the body Jason’s in right now.

 

            Fuck.

 

            Tim is tiny.

            Like Jason _knew_ that.

            But.

 

            _Still_.

 

            Tim’s faced down baddies that make _Jason_ feel small. Like Killer Croc.

            Shit, Jason’s seen Tim face that freakshow down – knows he only comes up to Croc’s waist or so… but looking at the little guy bounce around from his usual height and looking up at Jason’s own body from inside that tiny frame…

            And _god_ he’s gotta seem like a monster to Tim, gotta be one of the shadows that haunts Tim’s nightmares… because compared to Tim, Jason’s body is frickin ginormous.

            A viable threat just by its mere existence.

            And Jason’s tried to kill Tim.

            And nearly succeeded at it.

            Twice.

            And he’s just _so_ much bigger than Tim.

            A simple unguarded swing of Jason’s arm could knock Tim clean off his feet.

            He _knows_ that, has spent a while learning how to be conscious of it around Tim, but now that he and Tim have gotten more comfortable with working together, Jason’s kind of forgotten to watch himself. And Tim’s never noticeably balked at being dangerously close to Jason – who, from this angle, seems like he could very easily crush Tim by _accident_ , let alone intent.

 

            Jason shakes himself, refocuses.

 

            Because Tim’s already anxious, and he’s still picking at his fingernails, and the need for a nicotine hit is gonna start grinding on him hard, and Tim’s not gonna know what the sensation _is_ , let alone how to help mollify it.

            Jason still feels guilty about the idea of making Tim light up.

            It helps to think that doing so will help ease some of the obvious thrum of anxiety running through him, let the tension settle somewhat.

            “But you’re gonna need this soon,” Jason sighs. He reaches into the long skinny drawer just under the island’s countertop and pulls out a half-crushed carton of Marlboro Reds and a cheap little bic lighter. “I know you’ve never lit up before, but it’s not that bad.”

 

            Tim frowns.

            More of a pout, really.

 

            In other circumstances, it would be adorable.

 

            But now, Tim’s still curled in on himself. He’s still playing nervously with his fingers, but he’s quit the worst of it in order to project a flimsy bravado.

            “How do you know I’ve never tried it, never even experimented?”

            “ ‘Cause you’re lookin’ at this shit like it’s gonna fuckin’ _eat_ you,” Jason snorts.

            It’s hilarious that Tim doesn’t think it’s obvious to Jason.

            For someone Jason _knows_ has spent the last half a decade studying body language, Tim is still pretty damn oblivious about what his own body is projecting when he's stewing in his own persona, _au naturale_. Kid can don a mask and play it hard enough to trick the friggin’ _al Ghul_ ass-hats, but as just himself, Tim can't lie for shit.

            Jason’s willing to give him a bit of leeway, considering that his current body isn’t actually his own body, but still – Tim’s always been pretty transparent to Jason, even in the recent years.

            Trying not to let it affect him, Jason pushes the carton and the lighter across the island towards Tim and adds, “Don’t think about it, just let the muscle memory do the work.”

            Cautiously picking up the pack, Tim slips a cigarette free.

            Jason turns his back and begins digging through the cabinets, trying to think of some breakfast item he can cook that won’t make Tim’s stomach do backflips on him.

            Half of his move to turn and examine his cupboards is meant to give Tim a semblance of privacy. Kid has enough pressure on him to be perfect on a day to day basis, no need to add more. And he's spent so long successfully living up to the hype that not being perfect at something has gotta chafe. And there’s no way he’s gonna be perfect at this.

            The other half is guilt. He doesn’t wanna watch Tim flounder, doesn’t wanna watch him smoke at all. Sure, it’s Jason’s body, but it still feels weird… some curl of brotherly responsibility or shit balking at the idea of making Tim do drugs…

 

            _Nope_ , that line of thought is _not_ helpful _._ In any way.

 

            Jason fixates on the problem in front of him, instead of the one behind him.

 

            And that means food.

            Which Tim’s stomach does _not_ like the idea of ingesting. At all.

            Holy _fuck_ , how is this kid still alive when his body literally rebels at the concept of food?

 

            Well, sugar sounds good. Sugar doesn’t make him feel queasy.

            What does Jason have for breakfast that involves sugar?

 

            Pancakes jump to mind, but the griddle he kept here broke last month and he hasn’t gotten around to replacing it yet, and hell if he’s gonna make a dozen pancakes one at a time in an actual pan. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

            But _waffles_ use almost the same mix and his waffle iron makes four in a go. And he’s got whipped cream and syrup and butter and shit to add calories to keep both Tim and Jason alive for the next few hours of figuring things out.

            Checking his cabinets, Jason discovers that he’s out of the stuff to make the mix from scratch. _Shit_. He would’ve liked to have needed to expend a bit more focus on making breakfast, but Tim’s stupid crazy stomach is suddenly _dead set_ on this waffle thing. Box mix it is.

            Because Stephanie likes pancakes, but anything more complicated than adding milk, eggs, and oil to a pre-made mix is way too much for her to handle. And there’s _always_ a few spare boxes of the mix, because she burns half of what she attempts to cook even when it’s only got three steps to it.

            ( Side note that he’s totally not bitter about at the moment, Steph’s the one who busted up his griddle. )

            He’s still grumbling internally about it all as he gathers the ingredients. A quick glance in the mirrored backsplash proves a shock. Even having seen it in the hand mirror already, seeing himself in Tim’s little body is just as jarring as it was the first time.

            Over his – _Tim’s_ – shoulder, he sees his own body looking upset and unsettled.

            “You’re thinking too much,” Jason says without turning around from the bowl of batter he’s bringing into being. “Just shut your stupid little brain off. I’ve been smoking for over a decade at this point, and a pack a day the last two years – my body knows how to fuckin do this shit. Just watch me attempt to make waffles with your scrawny little stick arms and zone out.”

 

            It might work.

 

            He’s gotta look ridiculous trying to wrestle Tim’s aching limbs into order.

 

            And Tim has never been the most focused person in the world.

            Well, he’s sorta focused, but he’s always been prone to _over_ focusing – on shit that no one else can even see. It would be called daydreaming by a dumbass teacher, even at the fancy ass university Tim attends where the teachers ought to know better, but Jason knows it’s because Tim’s brain is working on a puzzle.

            Or obsessing over some dumb worry. He does that too.

            Which Jason doesn’t understand, but whatever. And Jason can usually tell the difference between figuring and freak out, so he knows which one to interrupt, so he’s not worried.

            Even when Tim’s expression takes on a sort of sad slant he can’t rationalize, he’s still not quite worried – it’s probably just that Tim’s brain is focused on the puzzle of what the frick happened to make them like this, and he’s upset at not being inside his own body.

 

            As Jason works methodically through the first round of waffle cooking, he snatches looks at the reflection of Tim behind him. Eventually, he does seem to let his mind wander enough to let the muscle memory ingrained in Jason’s body do the hard work and get the cigarette to his lips – get the nicotine inside it down to his lungs.

 

            Tim doesn’t even cough at the sensation.

            And a good chunk of the tension in his frame evaporates.

 

            When Tim’s arm reaches for the astray on autopilot it seems to surprise Tim’s mind enough to wake him to the moment. He looks panicked for half a second before settling into the calm of it, of letting Jason’s muscles do what they need to in order to make the twitchy feeling of a craving go away.

 

            And when Jason sets a plate of waffles down in front of him, Tim looks positively _ravenous_. Which makes sense, considering that he’s inside Jason’s body and Jason has never really gotten passed the part of puberty that makes kids like him vacuum up everything in sight that’s even remotely edible. He’s not sure if it’s a consequence of dying halfway through age sixteen, when puberty hadn’t yet been quite finished with him, or if it’s a lingering symptom of the Pit – that ravenous, vicious hunger for inflicting pain, that appetite of bloodlust, simply being funneled into a more traditional hunger.

            Or it could even be a consequence of dying and coming back, regardless of the Pit – even your most traditional zombie is a mindless eating machine, after all.

 

            Whatever it is, Tim is feeling it.

 

            He inhales the first round of waffles and digs into the second without any hesitation. It could be that Tim’s so focused on the food because it gives him time to think without having to talk, but feeling Tim’s own body shove up resistance to the idea of eating _anything_ – feeling the battle it takes to keep food down first hand – Jason thinks it’s a lot more likely Tim’s just straight up overwhelmed.

            Jason thinks it’s pretty likely Tim’s never felt hunger like Jason’s before.

            Puberty’s been treating Tim pretty well, but not in a way that’s made him bulk up. He’s gotten a lot taller that he was at twelve, and broadened out a bit from when Jason knew him before he died, but Tim’s still built lean – still looks tiny compared to Jason, especially with how much more dramatic Jason’s own growth spurts. With the persistent leanness in his frame and with how there’s a veritable riot in his stomach as Jason considers forcing down a second waffle… yeah, Tim marveling at Jason’s appetite is highly probable.

 

            Jason gives him his peace.

            He decides to screw washing up for the moment – because Tim’s muscles still hurt, are still protesting to the rude awakening they got as Jason spent what little time he did with cooking, and because they have way bigger problems to focus on right now.

 

            Stashing all the dirty kitchenware in the sink, Jason comes around the island to the side Tim’s seated on – letting himself fall into the tall chair beside his own body. Tim’s feet dangle more than a few inches off the ground and Jason props them up on the middle chair’s cross brace to keep them from swinging like a kid’s.

 

            “Okay, so, any idea what the hell happened?”

 

            Tim shakes his head.

            “All I know is that it’s some sort of consciousness transfer, not an illusion or some sort of ‘walk a mile in their shoes’ hoodoo. Our bodies still need what they usually need, it’s just that the consciousness in control of those bodies has swapped. It had to happen between 6:00 and 10am, because I definitely stitched up the wound on your shoulder while it was on _your_ shoulder. We went to sleep around sunrise, and since we got to sleep without being disturbed by any strange consciousness shifting sensations bothering us, it had to happen after that. I woke up around 10, maybe up to 10 minutes after, and we were already swapped, so it had to happen before that.”

 

            Jason nods. It’s a good rundown, a solid baseline to start working from. Whatever happened to them happened between 6-10am. It’s a 4-hour window, better than most time of death estimates they get on a good number of their cases.

 

            Unfortunately, a body swap is not as definitive a process as a body _drop_.

 

            Just because it _happened_ inside a 4-hour window, doesn’t mean it was _triggered_ inside that window. In fact, since they were asleep during the entire window, it’s highly improbable that the trigger and the occurrence have a reasonable time-frame link.

 

            “Working backwards from sunrise,” Jason says, thinking carefully, “The trip home wasn’t bad, considering the annoyance of minor injuries. And we didn’t see anyone else as we traveled, cape or criminal – couple civs, but nothing special.”

            Tim nods agreement.

            “And the bust wasn’t anything special either,” Tim comments. “More people than I’d thought would be there, but nothing truly excessive – nothing that says they were _knowingly_ transporting anything more dangerous than antiquities.”

 

            Jason shrugs, fights a wince at the scream in Tim’s shoulder muscles. “I didn’t even know it was just antiquities until meeting up with you to brief yesterday,” Jason mentions, letting his thoughts roll over the intel he’d been operating on for this. “It’s your case, mainly, I’m just on it because I knew Ludwig Massimo was gettin’ his docks ready for some sort of special shipment. I thought it was drugs, honestly; drugs or some sort of _human_ cargo.”

 

            “I was tracking Evgeni Zagitova. He’s an, um, ‘personal shopper’ type for the insanely rich all over the world, and most of what he ‘shops’ for is stuff to fill mansions up with unique pieces, and basically all of it is stolen,” Tim relays – he’d briefed Jason thoroughly last night, but it never hurt to hear it again when trying to evaluate new information, like a body swap.

 

            “If he’s a personal shopper, he must know a little something about the shit he’s shopping for… think he knows if one of his unique pieces is just a little extra special?”

 

            With a nod, Tim says, “Probably. Odds are he’ll at least know a story or something that we could use as a starting point. But he doesn’t have the local contacts to get out of jail so quickly, and because of that, he’s probably going to be actively in interrogation for a while yet… difficult to get to… Fortunately, he’s a bit of a bragger. He probably told Massimo all about anything interesting he was transporting.”

 

            “And Massimo, we can _get_ to,” Jason connects – a wicked grin drawing across his face.

 

            “But first, we need to make sure we cover all our bases,” Tim warns. Jason’s brow furrows and he squints in silence to make Time elaborate, “I assume you don’t want to get Bruce or the others involved? Don’t want to even let anyone know what’s happened?”

            Jason snorts – all the answer he needs to give, and all that he could manage without getting riled up. Cursing out the Bats with Tim’s tongue might’ve been tempting, but Jason didn’t wanna risk pissing Tim off enough for him to go crying to Dickie bird.

            “Then we have to make sure that no one expects anything of us in the meantime,” Tim explains. “Since I doubt you want to just pretend to be me to maintain my appointments, I have a Wayne Enterprises luncheon to call out of, and I was supposed to meet Steph for a movie and some casework, not to mention the Family Dinner and Game Night scheduled at the Manor…”

 

            Jason shudders at the thought of suffering through a family dinner.

 

            He’s on pretty decent terms with the rest of the Bat brood at this point. And he’s perfectly able to be civil – well, _more_ than civil, honestly, though still not _quite_ friendly –  with Bruce on the odd occasion some horror makes a case into an all-hands-on-deck affair… or even if he decides he just needs to borrow the actual Batcomputer’s epic resources for a case. He’s got blanket open access to the Cave and Wayne Manor – doesn’t have to sneak or hack or anything.

            But the thought of sitting through a formal meal, with like seven courses or some shit, and nothing to use as a distraction or to make the conversation any kind of bearable…

 

            Yeah. _Fuck_ that shit.

 

            At the expression Jason pulls, Tim sighs. “Yeah, I thought not. I’m just glad I don’t have school today or anything. Make-up work is the worst.”

            “Yeah, sure it is. The _worst_. It’s the kind of thing that just _kills_ me.”

 

            Tim shoots Jason a flat look of disapproval at his sarcasm that makes Jason grin.

 

            Instead of rising to the bait of an old argument, Tim asks, “Don’t you have anything you have to make your excuses for this afternoon?”

            “Dude, I’m _dead_ ,” Jason replies.

            Tim blinks. “You don’t have a civilian ID?”

            “None that come with any obligations,” Jason scoffs.

            “What about the Outlaws, you need to check in with them or anything?”

            “Kori’s off world and Roy’s spending a few months babysitting Star City while Queen’s off with the League,” Jason explains. “I _could_ check in, if I felt like it, but we’re not a hand-holding bunch. I mean, they’d get worried if they didn’t hear from me for _months_ or if I miss a birthday or some shit, but unless I ask for help they’re not gonna nose into what I’m doing.”

            Tim blinks again. “Huh.”

            “It’s a sweet deal baby bird,” Jason sighs. “ _Very_ different from daddy Bat’s philosophy.”

            Tim is looking at him with Jason’s own frickin’ face and Jason can’t read it well enough to know what the little idiot is thinking.

            It’s frustrating.

            And Tim stays quiet long enough to make it _irksome_.

 

            Jason huffs.

 

            Huffs – and then abruptly realizes that a huff is all it takes to expel the built up energy of his low-simmering frustration. In the same second, he’s flooded with shock, _awe_ even.

            Tim’s body has never taken a dip in a Lazarus Pit – bears none of the side-effects.

            So while Jason’s mind is still all kinds of messed up from his stupidly fucked up childhood and all the other issues from before he died, none of it’s been compounded or exacerbated by the burning acid of the Pit. Jason still jumps to anger way faster than a sane person should, but that leap doesn’t kick start a chain reaction of vitriol and violence.

            It’s… remarkable.

 

            “What?”

 

            Tim’s looking at him strangely, a mix of confusion and concern and… almost wariness.

            Jason has to wonder how much of a serial killer smile he’s showing – it’s gotta be unnerving for Tim to see that kind of manic glee on his own face. But Jason’s not too worried.

            He should probably explain the Pit’s influence, and the oddity of being without it, but he doesn’t think Tim will be as easily affected by it as Jason is – that natural devotion in him to rationality and logic and step-back consideration will keep a tight lid on the Pit’s whispers.

            And, to be perfectly honest, Jason’s not particularly keen on explaining that ongoing twist of struggle that the Lazarus Pit has left him dealing with…

            As far as Tim’s concerned at the moment, Jason’s only grappling with the lingering effects in terms of regrets and bad memories, maybe a few overly dramatic nightmares. Jason has carefully arranged it so none of the Bats can possibly realize how constant – how _present_ and continuing – the struggle against the Pit is for him, even with five long years of ‘recovery’ time after being brought back by it.

            “I’m just thinking about how pissed off the Family would be if you swaggered into Game Night with me behind the wheel,” Jason says instead of explaining. He flashes Tim a vicious grin and adds, “You know, I could do a lot of damage to your perfect reputation. Might be fun.”

 

            Tim is not amused.

 

            But he’s also not suspicious.

 

            He heaves a resigned sigh and turns his attention back to wriggling out of his responsibilities for today. He pushes up awkwardly from his seat at the island and walks – with slow, but deliberate and easily controlled steps – over to the secure computer set up Jason’s got arranged on the edge of the living room.

            It’s a small set up, and not the most powerful thing in the universe, but it’s just about as secure as the Batcomputer in the Cave, and because it’s wired into everything important, courtesy of Oracle, the little alcove is pretty much the hub of the house.

            Watching him settle lets Jason relax enough to feel the screaming _ache_ still gnawing at Tim’s muscles. He resists the groan pulling at his lungs and pushes to his own – hopefully temporary – feet, saying, “While you’re doing that, I’m gonna take a shower – see if I can get some of this _totally **not** healthy_ soreness to work itself out.”

 

            “Your complaints have been noted,” Tim responds dryly.

 

            As Jason maneuvers down the hall, he grumbles under his breath about how he’s gonna have to find _some_ way to knock some sense into this ridiculous idiot’s thick skull… Jason has a sneaking suspicion that this sense knocking is not gonna be pretty.

 

 

________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still am TRYING to stick to a schedule, posting once every two weeks instead of the willy-nilly every 3-5 days thing I'm currently going on with Manners... but we'll see.
> 
> Manners IS the priority. <3
> 
> NEXT TIME: Tim adapts to Jason's strength and they make progress on figuring out what happened / how to fix it.
> 
> (Also, I know they're being kind of non-reactive to certain things, atm, but they WILL have cute, crack-ish freak-outs over things once they calm down out of straight-up Case Mode. Right now they'er Focused(TM) because they're kinda lowkey panicking. Once progress gets made... the shower Jason's about to take... gets interesting) XD


	4. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Jason finagle and follow their only current lead on figuring out what happened to them, and how to change it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim is an oblivious, over-scheduled idiot.

 

**Chapter 4 – First Steps (Tim)**

 

            The breakfast sits strangely in Tim's stomach.

            Warm.

            And comfortable.

            Which is just so utterly bizarre.

 

            Tim’s relationship with food has always been complicated.

            He’s never felt hunger in the way that other people describe it – certainly not the way that Jason’s body _felt_ it – and he’s always had to walk a delicate balance of forcing down enough calories to keep himself alive without shoving in too many, too quick, in a way that’ll just make him throw it all back up.

            He’s not sure what his own deal is with it all, and he’s not entirely convinced that this feeling legitimate hunger thing is really an objectively better state of being, but trying it out while using Jason’s body as a strange, first-person proxy is definitely _enlightening._

            It’s not until the sound of Jason dumping dishes into the sink jars him back to awareness that Tim realizes they’ve both been silent for a long while now.

            Tim steels himself to refocus on the problem at hand.

            It’s not a small one, after all.

 

            Jason comes around the island to the side Tim’s seated on – letting himself fall into the tall chair beside his own body. Tim’s feet dangle a few inches off the ground and Jason props them up on the cross brace of the empty chair between them to keep the heels from swinging around like a kid’s.

            He folds himself over the cool granite of the countertop and directs his gaze to Tim as he casually props his head up on the heel of one hand.

 

            Tim has to blink a few times – processing the oddity that is seeing a posture that so clearly screams _Jason_ … but seeing his own image doing it – like a mirror showing off the results of a creepy acting class where Tim’s required to imitate his family members.

            He knows them all well enough to pull it off, to perfectly, proactively imitate any one of them at the drop of a hat, but it’s still strange to see the probably fruits of such an effort from such a distinctly third person viewpoint.

            Jason’s voice knocks Tim’s brain back into the proper gear.

 

            “Okay, so, any idea what the hell happened?”

 

            Tim shakes his head. “All I know is that it's some sort of consciousness transfer, not an illusion or some sort of 'walk a mile in their shoes' hoodoo. Our bodies still need what they usually need, it's just that the consciousness in control of those bodies has swapped. It had to happen between 6:00 and 10am, because I definitely stitched up the wound on your shoulder while it was on your shoulder. We went to sleep around sunrise, and since we got to sleep without being disturbed by any strange consciousness shifting sensations bothering us, it had to happen after that. I woke up around 10, maybe up to 10 minutes after, and we were already swapped, so it had to happen before that.”

 

            Jason nods. It’s a good rundown, a baseline. Whatever happened to them happened between 6-10am. It’s a 4-hour window, better than most time of death estimates they get on a good number of their cases.

            Unfortunately, the fact that it _happened_ inside a 4-hour window, doesn’t mean it was _triggered_ inside that window. And, since they were asleep during the entire window, it’s highly improbable that the trigger and the occurrence have a reasonable time-frame link.

 

            “Working backwards from sunrise,” Jason says, expression screwed up in the way that Tim is aware shows he’s thinking carefully, “The trip home wasn’t bad, considering the annoyance of minor injuries. And we didn’t see anyone else as we traveled, cape or criminal – couple civs, but nothing special.”

            Tim nods agreement.

            “And the bust wasn’t anything special either,” Tim comments. “More people than I’d thought would be there, but nothing truly excessive – nothing that says they were _knowingly_ transporting anything more dangerous than antiquities.”

 

            Jason shrugs and Tim catches a slight flinch in his expression – probably related to some twinge of soreness in Tim’s muscles. Tim really hopes he hides it better than that when he’s the one who’s actually inside his body – thinks he probably does, because the Bats are all observant and nosy and wouldn’t let it go if they saw him flinch like that on a regular basis.

            Tim can’t tell if he’s relieved that he _must_ hide it well or embarrassed that he can’t hope to hide it from Jason anymore.

 

            Again, the sound of Jason speaking knocks some focus back into him.

 

            “I didn’t even know it was just antiquities until meeting up with you to brief yesterday,” Jason mentions, letting his thoughts roll over the intel he’d been operating on for this. “It’s your case, mainly, I’m just on it because I knew Ludwig Massimo was gettin’ his docks ready for some sort of special shipment. I thought it was drugs, honestly; drugs or some sort of _human_ cargo.”

            Tim very carefully does not allow himself to get distracted by that, by the vehement promise of bloody retribution in Jason’s tone as his own thoughts flit over the outline of Ludwig Massimo’s smuggling enterprise.

 

            “I was tracking Evgeni Zagitova. He’s an, um, ‘personal shopper’ type for the insanely rich all over the world, and most of what he ‘shops’ for is stuff to fill mansions up with unique pieces, and basically all of it is stolen,” Tim relays – he’d briefed Jason thoroughly last night, but it never hurt to hear it again when trying to evaluate new information, like a body swap.

            “If he’s a personal shopper, he must know a little something about the shit he’s shopping for… think he knows if one of his unique pieces is just a little extra special?”

            With a nod, Tim says, “Probably. Odds are he’ll at least know a story or something that we could use as a starting point. But he doesn’t have the local contacts to get out of jail so quickly, and because of that, he’s probably going to be actively in interrogation for a while yet… difficult to get to… Fortunately, he’s a bit of a bragger. He probably told Massimo all about anything interesting he was transporting.”

 

            “And Massimo, we can _get_ to,” Jason connects – a wicked grin drawing across his face.

 

            It’s the start of an inexorable tumble, Tim knows. And Tim wants just as much as Jason to go beat on the bad guy for a little while – to both dole out a little justice that the legal system in Gotham is still too warped to properly provide, and to set about getting answers about the current predicament he and Jason are facing.

            But a niggle of concern – that trained-in bite of awareness of his other responsibilities pulls at his consciousness, reminding him that he was never planning on having to spend the afternoon traipsing around the city with Jason.

            That he has already this time slot booked for something.

            For several somethings.

            And if this takes more than a few hours to get sorted out… he has plans for the evening that he would have to ignore as well… And even if he _does_ get back into his own body before seven, Tim feels fairly confident in thinking that he will not be able to fulfill the role expected of him if he attempts to participate in the agenda he’d previously laid out for himself.

            Which means some things need to be handled before they can chase down Massimo.

 

            “But first, we need to make sure we cover all our bases,” Tim warns. Jason’s brow furrows and he squints in silence to make Time elaborate, “I assume you don’t want to get Bruce or the others involved? Don’t want to even let anyone know what’s happened?”

 

            Jason snorts.

            It’s all the answer he needs to give; and by the shadow drawing darkly across Jason’s expression, it’s all he _can_ give without actively cursing out the idea of letting the Family help.

            Tim appreciates that restraint.

            He gets that Jason has… lingering _issues_ with the Family, understands that those issues aren’t just going to go away, but he still isn’t fond of having Jason run off a rant of cursing at the mere idea of allowing himself to be more actively connected to the Bat Clan.

 

            “Then we have to make sure that no one expects anything of us in the meantime,” Tim explains, without giving away any of the sad tinge to his spiraling thoughts. “Since I doubt you want to just pretend to me be to maintain my appointments, I have a Wayne Enterprises luncheon to call out of, I was supposed to meet Steph for a movie and some casework, not to mention the Family Dinner and Game Night at the Manor…”

            Jason shudders at the thought, and Tim can see the motion ripple through his every muscle in a slow wave of utter horror.

            Tim manages not to frown.

            He likes their monthly Game Night – Babs initiated it, and it’s fun… sometimes.

            And while the weekly Family Dinner… could be less uncomfortable than it was sometimes, it was still good – _nice_ , even, on the odd occasion that no one was in the midst of feuding over a particularly sore spot in their various, complicated relationships.

            But at the same time, he _does_ understand where Jason’s coming from.

            His relationship with the Bats in general hasn’t been terribly smooth over the last few years – honestly, it’s only been a _relationship_ in the last two, what with the unfortunate circumstances of the whole Lazarus Pit detox and the drama from immediately prior to it.

            Tim sighs as Jason’s lip curls into a silent snarl as he processes through some thought or other relating to the potential aggravation, and worse, that could stem from Family Dinner.

            “Yeah, I thought not. I’m just glad I don’t have school today or anything. Make-up work is the worst,” Tim plays off, trying to make it seem like wiggling his way out of the appointments he’s expected to keep is less of a trial than it really will be.

            Jason skips straight over any kind of concern like that.

            “Yeah, sure it is. The _worst_. It’s the kind of thing that just _kills_ me.”

            Jason seems deeply amused by his quip, and that pleased expression only cements into place as Tim shoots him a flat look of disapproval.

            It still stings.

            Tim doesn’t want to let on about how the idea that Jason had died – had literally _died_ – still hurts as much as it does. He doesn’t like it when Jason makes death jokes – which he does _staggeringly_ often, likely as a strange way of coping that runs exactly opposite to Tim’s tastes.

            Anyway, Tim has no real right to stop him from making the jokes and no desire to argue about it when they have so many other problems to face.

            So instead of doing anything he might want to about the death joke, Tim asks, “Don’t you have anything you have to make your excuses for this afternoon?”

            “Dude, I’m _dead_ ,” Jason replies.

            It’s a flat, blanket statement that he seems to think covers everything Tim could possibly be wondering about. He’s dead and therefore has no responsibilities whatsoever.

            Tim blinks. “You don’t have a civilian ID?”

            “None that come with any obligations,” Jason scoffs.

            Tim knows that officially Jason Peter Wayne-Todd is dead. And he should probably remain so – since it will be an absolute _circus_ to have the media informed about his return and that is exactly what Jason would _not_ want. It would probably be enough to drive him off.

            But at the same time…

            Jason _was_ alive.

            And living as if he weren’t.

 

            As if he had no desire to be alive.

 

            “What about the Outlaws, you need to check in with them or anything?”

            “Kori’s off world and Roy’s spending a few months babysitting Star City while Queen’s off with the League,” Jason explains. “I _could_ check in, if I felt like it, but we’re not a hand-holding bunch. I mean, they’d get worried if they didn’t hear from me for _months_ or if I miss a birthday or some shit, but unless I ask for help they’re not gonna nose into what I’m doing.”

            Tim blinks again. “Huh.”

            Jason seems… almost… _proud_ of that fact.

            Like it’s an arrangement that he set up with them intentionally – laid out with as much care and attention to detail as any check in schedule Tim has ever created with the Titans.

            “It’s a sweet deal baby bird,” Jason sighs. “ _Very_ different from daddy Bat’s philosophy.”

            It is different.

            But it’s also the same.

            Instead of caring primarily for the physical well-being of the Outlaws, however, it protected their mental well-being first and foremost. Each one of them had good reason to want to be left alone – to deal with their individual heaps of issues in their own ways. It let them reach out for guaranteed support – with supporters that would know immediately that the check in wasn’t a flippant routine or an endeavor undertaken lightly – but only when they wanted it and were in a mental place where they could _accept_ it.

            Which is a sophisticated and genuinely insightful twist of self-assessment.

            Tim is intrigued.

            An interest he keeps from showing on his face – which is something that seems to frustrate Jason as he first loses his smirk and then begins to frown in a slow progression as his eyes narrow and skim back and forth over Tim’s expression on Jason’s own face.

            And then the slow descent to a scowl is abruptly aborted.

            Dramatically reversed.

 

            Clearly, some thought had occurred to him.

            It had been a sudden transition, a revelation beyond any expectation.

 

            “What?”

 

            Tim doesn’t actually mean to ask the question out loud.

 

            Jason’s expression shutters closed instantaneously – windows sealed for the zombie apocalypse, or worse. Blacked out against any insight Tim might gain.

            That Tim suddenly realizes he _wants_ to gain.

 

            Just before he realizes that he has no right in the world to claim the information.

            Usually, he has no qualms about prying into peoples’ lives to gather whatever intel he’s after in a given moment, but with Jason… it’s… it’s _different_.

 

            “I’m just thinking about how pissed off the Family would be if you swaggered into Game Night with me behind the wheel,” Jason says instead of explaining. He flashes Tim a vicious grin and adds, “You know, I could do a lot of damage to your perfect reputation. Might be fun.”

 

            The joke isn’t anything close to the truth, Tim knows.

            It’s Jason being gentle in saying that he wants Tim to keep his nose out of it.

            It’s probably the most polite version of the ‘fuck off’ sentiment Jason has ever iterated.

 

            Tim heaves a resigned sigh and turns his attention back to wriggling out of his responsibilities for today. He pushes up awkwardly from his seat at the island and walks – with slow, but deliberate and easily controlled steps – over to the secure computer set up Jason’s got arranged on the edge of the living room. It’s a small set up, but it’s just about as secure as the Batcomputer in the Cave, and the little alcove is pretty much the hub of the house.

            The computer, being as advanced and demanding of electricity as it is, takes a moment to start up and actually open the secure email program. While he waits, Tim is thinking over the exact phrasings he’s going to use – and trying to ignore the feeling of Jason’s eyes on his back.

            The chair at the island that Tim left Jason sitting in squeaks and Tim uses the shine of the computer monitors to watch him push up unsteadily to his feet – to _Tim’s_ feet, which he can control better than Tim can manage with his, but he still _looks_ like he’s struggling with Tim’s awkward and gangly limbs.

            “While you’re doing that, I’m gonna take a shower – see if I can get some of this _totally **not** healthy_ soreness to work itself out.”

            “Your complaints have been noted,” Tim responds, feeling another pang of guilt that Jason has no such obligations to handle and feeling a fresh stab of indignant pride in the fact that he’s had to work so much harder, to push his body's natural limits so much farther, than the other Bats to earn his place in the Crusade and all that effort is able to be so easily dismissed.

            By the time Jason’s vanished down the hall, grumbling under his breath, Tim’s halfway through an email to Lucius Fox. He is going to owe the man one hell of a bottle of scotch for this.

            The Swedish Corporation he was supposed to be having brunch with was not used to being taken lightly. And they weren’t impressed by the teenager they’d been introduced to as the Wayne Enterprises’ acting CEO. Each one of the delegation sent to hash out this deal was at least twice Tim’s age, even the lowly secretary.

            Lucius could more than handle the meeting on his own, and he was entirely authorized to make such negotiations without a Wayne present, but that didn’t mean he _wanted_ to handle the meeting… especially considering the fact that Tim was giving him about 97 minutes of warning… yeah. A _very_ nice bottle of scotch was going to be hitting his expense report this week.

            The movie with Steph is easier to get out of… in some ways at least.

            The case they’re working on was scheduled to be handled tomorrow and the last minute practice session for the operation could be postponed to tomorrow afternoon without any legitimate detriment to the operation itself. Truthfully, the ‘practice’ was really just an excuse to watch a movie and goof off with Steph for an afternoon – something he hadn’t managed for a while, and something she insisted on reminding him was a vital part of living.

            He will have to make the goofing off up to her, with a movie tomorrow and something else fun and light hearted next weekend, but for now, he could get out of it. She might be concerned, but they’ve been working on establishing limits in their new friendship – their post break up, still loving but not _in_ love friendship. Their complicated, sometimes painful, sometimes perfect, _let’s be siblings, it worked for Dick and Babs,_ still evolving friendship.

            Tim could postpone, and Steph would let him. No immediate questions.

            Family Dinner and Game Night on the other hand…

            That would be something for which his excuses would be questioned.

            So, before he sent anything to Bruce or Alfred, Tim sends a note to Barbara – pleading with her not to question it and to run interference for him on the others’ questions. He would tell her everything once he got it sorted out – a promise that he intended to keep and also intended to simply not tell Jason about beforehand. He just had to wait until it was all sorted.

            Babs is good at reading a situation and she has always been kind and discreet.

            Then he sends an apology to Alfred, including a promise to make it up to him on Sunday with a full brunch and tea service. After that he sends a two line email to Bruce, informing him that he would not be attending, but the expected patrol of Red Robin’s usual territory would still be handled exactly as scheduled.

 

            Bruce will not be pleased.

 

            Tim is not particularly concerned, or sorry.

 

            He _is,_ however, aware that they need to get out of this safe house soon or Bruce himself might drop by for an unannounced visit.

            Tim is just finishing up – hesitating to shut down the computer in case Jason _does_ have an obligation to get out of that he just didn’t want to tell Tim about – when Jason comes back from his shower. His hair – Tim’s hair – is damp, the long strands are tousled, some hanging straight by his ears and some in lingering curls around his forehead, looped around phantom fingers that had pushed them back out of his eyes.

            He’s dressed – in a get up of suave business attire that Tim recalls having worn to a Wayne Enterprises brunch in early April, a brunch that took place near Red Hood’s territory in celebration of some campaign or other to clean up the worst parts of the city. Of course, the politician heading the official effort wouldn’t actually go all the way into Crime Alley himself, but even touching the edge of the territory was better than most would do to support a community that the rest of Gotham had already pretty much forsaken.

            It was a genuine effort; one that had apparently gotten the Red Hood’s attention enough for him to spy on it – and likely consider putting in a personal appearance – but it had been honest enough for Hood to decide to leave it alone.

            Jason had remembered though, remembered it enough to pair the light pink shirt with the dark purple tie. It was a bold choice that did not suit Jason’s style sense, so he had definitely _not_ chosen it because he liked it – especially when complemented by the gray suit jacket and slacks, with its unique weave that caught the sunlight in a way that was striking and sliming in pictures but one that even Dick Grayson had hesitated to wear, for fear of looking like a zebra.

            The weave is elegant, expensive, and something only Old Money would appreciate and Tim knew there was no way Jason would willingly wear it in any other circumstances.

            Jason’s expression is shuttered on Tim’s face and Tim finds himself frustrated with his in ability to read what he’s thinking.

            Before the frustration can solidify, Jason asks, “Look enough like you to be seen on the streets without ruining some multibillion dollar deal you’ve got brewin?”

            “Yeah,” Tim replies immediately, a pleased smile breaking out at the realization that he’d been right about Jason’s clothing choices – about how he’d chosen and how intentional and careful those choices had been.

            Jason nods, and tosses over a red t-shirt and a hoodie Tim hadn’t noticed him holding.

            “Then put that on and let’s get going,” Jason huffs. “I wanna be back to normal ASAP.”

            “Agreed,” Tim replies, pulling the shirt over his head. He winces as the act of shuffling it into place tugs on his stitches. Jason’s body is still dressed in the black tank and dark jeans he wears under his armor as Red Hood and since his Red Hood costume is close enough to street clothes when he goes sans Hood, it seems that Jason isn’t patient enough to make Tim change into regular clothes before they head out.

            Tim doesn’t feel the need to protest.

            There’s only one thing he does mention as they step out into the sunlight and make for the Wayne Enterprises BMW Tim’s currently utilizing. He eyes his own body slipping into the driver’s seat and comments, “We’ll pick up coffee on the way to Massimo’s hideout.”

            “That is an unhealthy and delicious idea,” Jason grumbles. “How are you even alive?”

            Tim shrugs and maneuvers Jason’s long limbs into the car, still not quite in control enough to make the motion elegant or fluid – he has to move each limb one at a time, in a manner that probably makes him look inebriated.

 

            He kind of _feels_ inebriated, so…

 

            Getting back to normal is definitely something he wants to happen sooner than later.

 

            Tim has enough intel on Jason's operations and casefiles to guess at where they're going – to know where Ludwig Massimo is most likely hiding out and where the nearest decent coffee shop is to that location. He doesn’t need to watch the route to know where they’re going so instead, he folds one of Jason's legs up under him – steeples his fingers across the knee and rests his chin on the thumbs. He spends the drive working over the manifest of the shipment – comparing it to the items and crates he'd actually seen in the warehouse last night.

            If he can narrow the gaps down to a few small questions, they should be able to get all the answers they need from Massimo.

            Tim is still attempting to isolate the most likely relevant inconsistency to target. They'll have to scout the warehouse over coffee, find a way in and out with Massimo kept pliant enough to be quiet and secure enough not to require masks to interrogate him.

            They should have everything they need in the trunk.

            The tricky part is going to be getting it accomplished quickly and then getting out to a safe house that none of the Bats know about – Tim is fairly certain that Babs will hold them off for a while, but eventually the others will come looking for him out of a very valid concern that something is wrong.

            The jolt of the car being thrown into a parking spot more abruptly than necessary wakes him to the moment as the arrive at a dicey little alley behind a tall, skinny Gotham Grind with a third floor terrace that looks over the still-unrenovated factory block of Old Gotham.

            Tim pulls his phone out of Jason's pocket and taps his way into the Gotham Grind app, lining up his usual order with the addition of a dozen scones (because Jason's body is somehow already hungry again) and a medium coffee with cream. He pauses on the final screen.

            “If I order through the app, Babs will know where we are,” Tim comments, adding, “Even with the phone's GPS disabled, I can do anything about the order’s geotag.”

            “So, then don’t order through the app,” Jason snorts.

            Shooting him a sideways glance, Tim says, “I would like to let her know everything is moderately okay. Do you have a safe house that none of the Bats know about close enough to here to get to there before they can come looking for us?”

            “Not while maintaining your perfect sterling rep,” Jason huffs. Then he grumbles, “But I got _one_ we can use… Buy the coffee like a normal person. I'll scout the factory where Massimo is probably hiding and we'll meet back here in ten minutes. We use what’s stashed in the car to get in and out with Massimo knocked out – in and out fifteen minutes, all told. Stuff him into the trunk and get to a safe house where your fancy Batbrand BMW is off the streets and under the radar. I got that part covered. If you don’t want Babs to worry, shoot her another email. It’s been like five whole minutes since you sent the last one.”

            Tim shoots him a flat look.

            “Or, better yet, we could wear coms, I order through the app, you guide me in to nab Massimo, and then you pick the order up while I get our friend settled in the car,” Tim counters. “And we just get out of here in _ten_ minutes, quick enough for the Bats to lose our trail.”

            Jason scowls and opens his mouth to retort, but Tim beats him to it with a sigh as he adds, “I appreciate the effort you went to in getting me dressed like a respectable CEO, I really do, but that suit costs more than this car and you are _not_ splitting any of its seems in a tussle.”

            Jason's scowl deepens to a general glower. “I wouldn't have tried so hard to look right if I knew it was gonna get me sidelined,” he grumbles. “And if this suit is so damn expensive, why couldn't you afford to make it work for your other occupation?”

            “It was designed for me specifically, as a gift from the Fashion House directly, and I couldn't very well explain to the lead designer what I do after hours,” Tim explains, digging through the console's thick layer of decoy junk to access the hidden compartment with a few of the more frequently utilized Bat accessories. Among the carefully hidden boxes is a full flight of coms. Tim pulls out a pair of them and passes one to the still-grumbling Jason.

            The coms run on a localized Bluetooth connection, linked to the power pack inside the case being slipped into a pocket on Jason’s cargo pants – which makes the coms difficult for outside connections to hack into, buying them like five whole minutes of radio silence from Barbara if she notices the oddity of their current course of action and decides to investigate.

            As he secures his own com in his ear, Tim promises, “He's _your_ asset, Jason, you get to lead the interview. There will be plenty of time for ass-kicking when we get to whatever safe house you feel comfortable holing up in while we get this sorted out. Just let me do the initial grab. I'll need you to guide me through the factory.”

            “Fine,” Jason grumbles. “But if you get my body killed, _again_ , I am _so_ taking yours to the nearest strip joint. See how your reporter friends like _that_ shit _._ ”

 

            Tim ignores him.

 

            If he gets Jason's body killed, he could have no qualms about Jason doing his worst on Tim's rep – clearly, he would deserve it. But it’s a negligible concern anyway, as Massimo is not hard to handle in a fight, and Tim can take care of getting the smuggler knocked out and into the trunk even while working with his borrowed body.

            Instead of responding to Jason's jibe, Tim closes the console and leans over it – invading Jason's space. Flustered by the sudden proximity as Tim reaches up to run his fingers through his own hair, Jason holds perfectly still while Tim explains, “My hair is long enough to hide a com in daylight. You may as well actually _use_ that feature as intended.”

            Jason doesn’t respond immediately. He maintains his perfect stillness until Tim withdraws his hand, and then he snorts, “Never realized your ridiculous fashion sense had a practical value behind it.”

 

            Tim ignores the insult.

 

            It’s more difficult to ignore the worry raised behind it but he _does_ mostly manage to ignore the phantom pang of anxiety that he hasn’t lived up to Jason's expectations – that he still sits somewhere just above dust mites in Jason's hierarchy of esteem.

            “Just get me in and out of there with our soon-to-be new best friend,” Tim huffs, pulling away and stepping out of the car.

            He taps in the order on the app to distract himself from retroactively reacting to the fact that he'd just tousled Jason's hair – or rather, Jason's hand had just tousled his… both versions being scenarios he'd only very rarely let himself imagine.

            “Coffee will be waiting for you when you get me out with Massimo,” Tim says, already striding towards the factory as he hears Jason nab a discreet pair of binoculars before getting out of the car himself and heading into the coffee shop.

            “We _are_ gonna have to talk about this painful substance dependency issue you’ve got goin' on here,” Jason returns, his voice coming through loud and clear over the com connection.

            “It's not an issue,” Tim retorts immediately. “It’s a socially acceptable habit and it's _fine_.”

            “The way _you_ drink it is _definitely_ an issue,” Jason fires back.

            His tone is mostly amusement, but Tim wishes he could see his face – not that seeing it would help much in their current predicament.

            “Jeez, you sound almost as bad as Dick does with the big brothering,” Tim huffs with a distinct tinge of amusement. “Stop being a worry wart and just tell me where the target is.”

            “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda bossy?”

            “Well, regarding most of the people I interact with, I am quite literally their boss,” Tim quips smugly, “So it’s hardly an insult.”

            Jason allows himself to chuckle as Tim slips into the shadows of the alley leading up to the factory, but quickly refocuses.

            “Alright, looks like Massimo is on the third floor,” Jason relays. “I've got a visual on him and three goons, with three on the middle level, and then two more on the floor below. Nothin' else is warm or moving in there that I can see from here – and with Massimo runnin' a little light on the payroll this week, I’m surprised he’s even got that many friends.”

            Tim’s getting a better feel for how Jason’s body works and he’s able to hoist himself almost gracefully through a narrow window halfway up the side of the factory’s south wall. It’s a much tighter fit than he anticipated, and he can feel the window frame scrape at his stitches, but he makes it through and lowers his feet silently to the floor inside a small back office.

            With Jason in his ear to guide him through the layout and warn him of the goons’ positions, Tim makes short work of clearing the two lower floors.

 

            It’s easy.

 

            Being trained by the same person as youngsters means that the fundamentals of the martial arts styles they have ingrained in the fibers of their beings are the same. The icing on the styles is different, and Tim walks in feeling a bit lost without his bo staff – and his hands are itching to reach into the holsters currently absent from Jason's thighs – but he still fights with confident and fluid motions. More than that, with Jason's gut feelings driving the actions, he's making instinctual moves to target weaknesses without having to even think about it or even having to consciously process the information he’s picking up from the goons at all.

 

            And Jason’s body is so _strong_.

 

            The first time Tim punches out a goon with Jason’s fist and Jason’s full strength behind the blow, Tim drops the guy instantly. He just _falls_ , like a gooey meat sack, and for three terrifying seconds afterwards Tim is absolutely positive that he just broke the Rule.

            The creed against killing, one of the lines that make the good guys _good_ that made it allowable for Tim to force his way into the Crusade because it meant he could keep Bruce from crossing it and becoming something other than the hero Gotham needed… It’s the _one thing_ Tim has every really gotten _right_ in any this and now… he…

 

            But then the guy on the floor groans and Tim manages to breathe.

 

            He doesn’t think Jason notices his slip up – a small miracle and a tremendous relief – and Tim is more careful with the next few goons he drops.

            It’s almost pitifully easy for Tim to over power the last goon and then Massimo himself – taking out them both before they manage to turn around to glimpse their attacker.

            Though even if they had it’s not like ‘tall, handsome, vaguely Hispanic, twenty-something in a red hoodie’ is really an acceptably unique description of an assailant to get any results – particularly as Tim has kept Jason’s hood up to cover the white streak of hair in the fore of his dark curls that makes him slightly more identifiable.

            Jason’s strong enough for Tim to fling Massimo’s arm around his broad shoulders and saunter out of the factory like they’re just old friends, leaning on each other like one just told a really great joke or something. It’s smooth and easy for Tim to drag the unconscious Massimo to the BMW and tuck him into the trunk under the specially installed and modified storage bin.

            To the uninformed observer – even someone searching the car, save perhaps for the most observant and experienced DEA officer – the car looks entirely empty.

            Tim has finished up with securing Massimo and has just come to the conclusion that Jason has turned off his com for some unfathomable, _idiotic_ reason, when Jason strolls out of the coffee shop with a Cheshire cat smile that makes Tim’s stomach do an odd flip.

            Jason’s hands are full of scones and coffee but he maneuvers his way into the car easily enough and Tim settles into his own seat – resolved not to ask about the com or the smile – and turns his focus onto the scones that Jason dumps in his lap.

            As Jason makes his way through one of Tim’s usual coffees – his fourth of the morning – and Tim chows down on his dense confectionaries, Jason drives them to a safe house.

 

            The same safe house they had stayed in last night.

 

            The one that every cape and cape associate in the country knows about.

 

            “Jason? I thought we agreed that we needed to get somewhere secure, somewhere that the other Bats won’t be able to find us,” Tim pushes. “This is the first place they’ll look.”

            “Uh huh, and they’ll find your car in the parking garage like it was when you parked it there when you came to visit as your daytime persona before patrol last night,” Jason explains, without explaining anything.

            Tim stares him down as he throws the car into park.

            Jason easily ignores him and gets out of the car. Tim hurriedly follows as Jason makes his way towards the trunk. This time, when Tim glares at him, Jason sighs.

            “Everybody knows about the apartment I lease here,” he says, “Only Babs knows I own the whole building. And even she’s in the dark about the Basement. It doesn’t have internet access, or anything. Hell, it doesn’t even have a phone line. It’s hidden on the grid, tacking the resources it uses like power and water onto the rest of the building’s utility gauges. The only access is a hidden staircase behind the vault-locked utilities closet. So it’s both the first place anyone will look, and the last place anyone will think of to actually find us.”

            “That’s actually pretty brilliant,” Tim admits.

            “I might not be any kind of boy genius, Timmers,” Jason huffs, “But I have my moments. And don’t forget that I’ve spent the last six years or so learning how to hide from _Batman_.”

            The thought makes something slimy swirl in Tim’s gut. “Yeah, I guess. But still, this is a really great plan. We’ll have plenty of time and privacy to get this all figured out.”

            “Damn straight,” Jason agrees. Then he asks, “You got a go-bag in the car somewhere? I don’t have anything that’ll fit you in the Basement and your clothing choices upstairs are all fancy ass suits and your Red Robin gear.”

            “Yeah, um, under the middle row seat behind the driver,” Tim informs him.

            “Cool. I’ll grab that, while you get our new friend here out of the car. I’d help you haul his ass downstairs, but I think the duffle is gonna be hard enough to carry,” Jason quips with a smirk that shows he’s mostly joking. The edge in his tone tells Tim it’s only _mostly_ , though.

            Frowning as he refuses to give in to the familiar ache of inadequacy, Tim huffs, “I’m not _that_ weak. I can carry a stupid duffle bag.”

            “Yeah? Well, _I_ can fling Massimo there around like a rag doll for a couple of hours and I still won’t wake up tomorrow feelin’ like a pin at the end of a bowling alley on a Saturday night.”

            “It’s _fine_ ,” Tim huffs, a little more vehemently than he means to, “I can handle it.”

            Jason’s already moved on from the subject and before Tim’s even finished speaking, he’s digging though the junk under the seat in the middle row for Tim’s go-bag. “Just get our new friend outta the trunk. I wanna get him secured downstairs before he starts waking up.”

            Tim complies without hesitation – glad for Jason’s willingness to drop the point of Tim’s obvious weaknesses in favor of focusing on the more important things.

            Tim follows as Jason leads the way downstairs – grateful for both the faith Jason’s putting in him regarding the reveal of a _very_ well hidden safe house (one that Tim hadn’t even suspected existed) and for the fact that getting here with Massimo in tow means they are one step closer to getting things back to normal.

 

            As terrible a term as ‘normal’ is for the ridiculous lives they lead, it’s still _their_ normal.

 

            And Tim wants it back.

 

________

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Tim is an oblivious, overly FOCUSED idiot that's totally fixated on the Mission.
> 
> He will have a freakout about the actual real-world consequences of being body swapped, but it's gonna take a little bit longer for that realization to sink in. ^_~
> 
> NEXT TIME: Jason gets the realization about what it means to be stuck inside the wrong body... and reacts as well as could possibly be expected. XD


	5. Headway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's view of what's happening as they acquire their first lead and make a little progress on figuring out what's up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Jason...  
> _

Chapter 5 – Headway 

 

            With Tim settled at the computer making his excuses for all the ridiculous obligations he has to weasel his way out of for a single day of detouring through crazy land (or at least through a slightly _crazier than usual_ crazy land), Jason makes for the bathroom.

            He’s already got a shower started up and is midway through divesting himself of the soft athletic gear liners Tim wears beneath his Red Robin suit before it suddenly strikes him that this might be considered incredibly untoward and more than a little passed inappropriate…

            If not just straight over the line into perversion…

 

            Not that Jason ever cared much about that before, but like… _still_.

 

            He’s been trying _so_ _hard_ to be good these last few months.

 

            And Tim…

            Well, Tim’s _hot_.

 

            Jason's always thought Tim was an attractive little devil, even when he was more floppy baby seal than any sort of honed predator. It had taken a few years for the baby fat to fade and for his figure to adjust under the lean pack of muscle he'd put on with his Bat training, but the end result is definitely worth the wait.

            Tim isn’t the kind of universal bombshell of blunt attractiveness that Dick Grayson is, but he’s got a unique flavor with a very wide appeal. Fluid and clever, he’s not quite androgynous, but he’s close enough to count and ruthless enough to have invested in a skill set that can fully exploit every angle of that appeal – all of it elegant, calculated, and perfectly controlled. Unsettling, intriguing… gorgeous.

 

            Yeah. Tim's gorgeous.

 

            But unless he’s actively unconscious in a hospital bed, or being directly worked on under a doctor’s care, Tim’s always dressed in long sleeves and long pants. _Always_. Jason’s never even seen him work out in shorts or anything.

            Jason’s not really sure why that is… honestly, he’s never really bothered to question it internally, let alone to actually _ask_. But whether Tim is just body shy or something else, the _last_ person he’d want to have sticking their thumbs under his waistband like it’s nothing is Jason.

            _Fabulous_.

 

            That just makes this whole situation even more awkward.

 

            It probably hasn’t even occurred to Tim, yet.

 

            He might be a genius and he’s changed as much as Jason has in the last five years, but he’s still a little robot and Jason doubts it’s occurred to him to think about what a temporary body swap means in terms of dealing with each person’s bodily functions.

            _God damn it_.

 

            Man can’t even take a piss in peace these days.

 

            Three cups of coffee in and Tim’s presumably tiny bladder is holding up like a champ, but eventually it’s gonna burst here, so Jason _will_ have to deal with that eventually, but _damn_ … the mere idea of seeing the dick attached to Tim’s slim hips while Jason’s locked inside of him—

            _Fuck._

 

            Nope, nope, _nope_. That is the _wrong_ phrase to use regarding this situation.

 

            Jason is suddenly _so_ glad that he thought of this issue first, _well_ before it could’ve possibly occurred to Tim, and only _after_ having gotten away from Tim to do it… This way gives him time to come to terms with it all, and to calm the fuck down about it.

            There’s nothing they can do right now.

            And Tim’s body _needs_ a hot shower or it’s gonna hurt all fucking day – which would not facilitate Jason in being much help to actually getting things fixed.

            And he’s already in the bathroom.

            Already half stripped.

            The hot water’s already running.

            So, Jason steels himself and strips off the pants and armor plated jock strap in one hurried motion before stepping straight into the shower.

            He lets the bliss of hot water cascading down his aching muscles distract him from the fact that _Tim_ is _naked_ beneath his fingertips – and dripping wet in all that glory of a pretty boy powerhouse he is – and starts to scrub himself clean.

 

            His resolve not to look down lasts all of twelve seconds.

 

            It’s not because of the undeniable temptation to look at what kind of tackle the baby bird has between his legs, but instead it’s because of the bumps and ridges unmistakably made up of scar tissue that Jason’s feeling as his borrowed fingers ghost over the skin.

            Tim has a _lot_ of scars.

            A lot more than Jason thought he would.

            Far more than Jason thinks he _should_ …

 

            He tries not to catalogue them, but between his Bat training, his League training, and his own perverse fascination with grievous bodily harm… he can’t stop his brain from working through the injuries – can’t avoid processing the cause and effect of what created them.

            There’s a bite from Killer Croc on Tim’s hip that had probably come pretty damn close to taking Tim’s leg off entirely. It’s hard to tell where most of the others came from distinctly. He can feel them clearly, a gunshot here, a knife wound there, a probable tumble through some razor wire… but he can’t quite tell what caused them in terms of exact circumstances. As close as he’s been watching the Bats lately, Jason has to admit that he doesn’t know nearly enough about Tim’s case history as he would need to know in order to identify the injuries.

            There’s stab wounds, gunshots, shrapnel, and general scrapes; some stitched up better than others – and a good number left to heal without the proper care, worse than some of Jason’s early wounds, the less traumatic ones, at least… like Tim hadn’t just hidden them from B and Alfred and then tended to them himself later on, but like he had stopped the bleeding and then ignored them altogether.

            The truly serious ones all have excellent care, and most of them are more identifiable – the incidents that lead to them had been written up in the others’ casefiles, mostly the ones Dick and Bruce wrote up. Those are the deepest wounds, ones that did more than scar the flesh – though they had certainly damn near killed him and had to have left him floating on the edge of oblivion for weeks of recovery.

 

            And there’s this odd little divot in Tim’s abdomen, just inside the protection of his lower ribcage on the left side. There's a heavy knot of scar tissue, concave and surgical, and the float angle of his last two ribs is punched outward slightly in the strangest way… like they were pried back and held there a little too long during some sort of organ-focused surgery…

 

            It's an injury Jason doesn’t understand at all.

 

            One clearly serious enough that it should be in a report somewhere…

            That it should be in _several_ reports as more than one Bat edged in on the case that so clearly came close to straight up, real death style _killing_ one of their own.

            He makes a firm mental note to investigate it later – some time very soon after they get this immediate mess sorted out.

 

            There are, however, a few healed over injuries that Jason knows about far more intimately – and now that he’s thinking about them he can consciously feel the skin around the scars pulling slightly as he stretches. It isn’t quite enough to hurt outright – Tim had gotten careful medical care and diligent follow-up – but it’s still enough to make conscious awareness of the old wounds into a fairly constant thing.

            Awareness that Tim’s _family_ had tried to kill him – had nearly _succeeded_ in killing him.

            The deep slice across Tim’s right shoulder and the one through his left side were Damian’s doing, and both times the demon spawn had clearly caught Tim off guard rather than actually managed to best him, but still… those wounds were definitely mere centimeters from being irrevocably fatal. But they were direct, pointedly and almost delicately lethal.

 

            The deepest and most bluntly brutal wounds are ones that Jason knows better.

 

            They’re the ones that _he_ caused.

 

            The batarang to the chest that he’d used to basically _fillet_ the kid to get him out of what Jason had still considered to be _his_ Robin uniform. The deep cut across his lower throat from piano wire used to hold him still and the twin slices down his back where Jason had planned to drag Tim’s lungs through his ribs to give him wings that fluttered like the bird he so badly wanted to be…

            Yeah, those are Jason’s doing.

            Tim has said he’s forgiven him, has demonstrated an absurd trust in the idea that Jason’s truly changed… But now that Jason can tell how much Tim can still _feel_ the lingering effects of the life-threatening injuries he’d caused… how could Tim _possibly_ forgive him?

 

            What the hell is _wrong_ with that idiot?

 

            Jason steps out of the shower with a sour mood settling into place.

 

            He towels off quickly and makes for the guest bedroom where he knows Tim has stored some of his stuff – enough to make getting dressed in street clothes feasible.

            Unfortunately, all Jason can find of Tim’s in the expansive array of guest civies are the ridiculous suits Tim wears. While the kid pulls off the snazzy suit look better than anyone else Jason’s seen get stuffed into one, they aren’t exactly the kind of outfit needed for the ass kicking that Jason intends to bring down on Ludwig Massimo’s head.

            And honestly, Jason doesn’t actually know enough about the snub-nose high society freak show parade to know how to put together an acceptable outfit out of all the fancy bits and pieces he’s got on hand. He needs to do it right or Timothy _rich-boy-squared_ Drake-Wayne will be on his ass about propriety and the fact that his outlandish outfit has ruined like ten different billion dollar deals for him…

 

            So, Jason just copies one of the things he _knows_ he’s seen Tim wear.

 

            It’s a horrific clash of colors in Jason’s mind, but he distinctly remembers Tim wearing it sometime early spring – remembers that _somehow_ the little fucker pulled it off, looking less like an easter egg than like the kind of sly badass that wore ridiculous shit specifically to dare the incompetent idiots who might comment to do so. Because Tim would deeply enjoy ripping them to shreds with his genius while flexing his bloodline of bone-deep superiority.

            Alfred had spent a lot of time attempting to help Jason learn the finer points of dressing, particularly in formal attire, and as much as Jason disagreed that suits were something special, he’d at least paid enough attention to the lectures to get himself into Tim’s ridiculous ensemble without much trouble.

            He can still feel the stretch and pull of the scar tissue beneath the finery.

            Jason carefully hides his thoughts behind a blank expression as he grabs a red t-shirt and a hoodie for his own body – more determined than ever to get things back to normal so he can address the shit load of problems that he’s tallying up regarding Tim’s apparent lack of basic self-care and his unreasonable refusal to accept the need to take a break now and then.

            Tim is leaning back in the chair at the computer when Jason steps into the main living area, clearly hesitating to log off. He looks up when Jason enters, scanning his face intently as soon as he realizes that Jason’s keeping his expression intentionally blank.

            Frustration starts to build immediately as Tim struggles to read what Jason’s thinking, but before that frustration can solidify into something that the Pit can work with, Jason asks with a sardonic twist, “Look enough like you to be seen on the streets without ruining some multibillion dollar deal you’ve got brewin?”

            “Yeah,” Tim replies immediately, a pleased smile breaking out across his face as he looks Jason’s outfit choices over. He clearly doesn’t remember the fact that the only clothes he’s stashed here are this sort of ridiculous suit, but Jason’s still gratified to have his imitation skills, and the effort he made to use them, well appreciated.

            Jason nods, and then chucks the balled-up hoodie and t-shirt in Tim’s direction.

            “Then put that on and let’s get going,” Jason huffs. “I wanna be back to normal ASAP.”

            “Agreed,” Tim replies, pulling the shirt over his head. He winces as the act of shuffling it into place tugs on his stitches.

            Tim is currently utilizing a specially modified Batbrand Wayne Enterprises smart BMW that Jason finds kind of ridiculous and excessive, but it _is_ a pretty sweet ride and he slips into the driver’s seat with a grin.

            As they get settled, Tim mentions definitively, “We’ll pick up coffee on the way to Massimo’s hideout.”

            It’s not a suggestion, or anything remotely like one, and it makes Jason’s – _Tim’s_ – mouth water immediately.

            “That is an unhealthy and delicious idea,” Jason grumbles. “How are you even alive?”

            Tim shrugs, a strange little frown on his face that Jason could probably read if Tim’s face was actually Tim’s face. His own face doesn’t really make that expression naturally.

            Tim goes really quiet after that.

            He folds one of Jason’s legs up underneath him and steeples his fingers across the knee.

            This expression, Jason knows well. _This_ look means Tim’s thinking, carefully considering every possible angle of an operation. He’s obviously going over the details of the case, probably using that genius brain of his to cross reference the handwritten manifest of the expected shipment with the number and size and labels on the boxes he’d actually seen at the warehouse last night. Narrowing the gaps in his information to the smallest possible margin.

            If he can narrow it far enough – which Jason thinks he probably can, with that totally unfair and rather creepy, but hella useful eidetic memory of his – they should be able to get all the answers they need from Massimo in a few quick questions.

            And they should have everything the need to do it in the trunk.

            But with the both of them unmasked and dressed in civies, they’ll probably be better off dragging Massimo’s ass off to a safe house for a while – securing him in a windowless hole of an interrogation room where they can work on him with masks on…

            Slower, and not quite the immediate answer Jason had hoped for, but it’s gonna have to be good enough. He doesn’t want to risk the rest of the Bats finding out about this.

            They’re gonna blame Jason for this mess, he doesn’t have an iota of doubt about that.

            He would prefer to be back in his own body so he can skip town for a while and wait out the storm that will surely be breaking as those busybodies find out about it all.

            Because they will. Definitely. And sooner rather than later.

            So careful, quiet, as hidden as possible.

            The warehouse where Massimo’s 99% certainly hiding is very conveniently located almost directly behind an especially hipster branch of Gotham Grind, one with a third floor terrace that will almost certainly be vacant. Even with the sunshine, there’s a chilly breeze whipping roughly though the city that would dissuade all but the most determined and hardboiled of sun-starved Gothamites.

            Jason tries to focus on the convenience of that instead of on his own bitterness about the situation with the Family he’s supposed to be a welcome part of, but he can’t quite manage and he jolts the car into a parking spot slightly more abruptly than he means to.

            Tim doesn’t seem alarmed by it. Instead of commenting, he pulls his phone out of Jason’s pocket and starts tapping away – the bright green and bronze logo of Gotham Grind easily visible in the top left corner.

            He pauses suddenly just before the places the order.

            “If I order through the app, Babs will know where we are,” Tim comments, adding, “Even with the phone's GPS disabled, I can do anything about the order’s geotag.”

            “So, then don’t order through the app,” Jason snorts. Problem solved.

            Shooting him a sideways glance, Tim says, “I would like to let her know everything is moderately okay. Do you have a safe house that none of the Bats know about close enough to here to get to there before they can come looking for us?”

            “Not while maintaining your sterling rep,” Jason huffs.

            It’s not exactly true. He’s got a couple of places secured where even Oracle can’t find them that Tim could saunter into without making any kind of ripple, and a dozen others that are even more unreachable for the Family where seeing a _Drake-Wayne_ show up would be the equivalent of a bag of money falling out of the sky… he just isn’t entirely sure he wants to show any of those safe houses to Tim.

            The kid’s been a good sport about an awful lot, but it’s taken Jason over a couples years here to set up these little hidey holes. He’s not too keen on burning one already.

            At the same time, Babs has always been cool with him and he _does_ feel kinda bad about making Tim just blow her off… and it’s only between her and Tim being so… obnoxiously forgiving or just insane or some shit that Jason even _has_ a sort of place in the Family again… so… Jason can burn a safe house for them.

            “But I got one we can use… Buy the coffee like a normal person,” Jason tells him. “I'll scout the factory where Massimo is probably hiding and we'll meet back here in ten minutes. We use what’s stashed in the car to get in and out with Massimo knocked out. Stuff him into the trunk and get to a safe house where your fancy Batbrand BMW is off the streets and under the radar. I got that part covered. If you don’t want Babs to worry, shoot her another email. It’s been like ten whole minutes since you sent the last one.”

            Tim shoots him a flat look.

            “Or, better yet, we could wear coms, I order through the app, you guide me in to nab Massimo, and then you pick the order up while I get our friend settled in the car,” Tim counters. “And we just get out of here in ten minutes, quick enough for the Bats to lose our trail.”

            Jason scowls and opens his mouth to retort, but Tim beats him to it with a sigh as he adds, “I appreciate the effort you went to in getting me dressed like a respectable CEO, I really do, but that suit costs more than this car and you are _not_ splitting any of its seems in a tussle.”

            Jason's scowl deepens to a general glower. “I wouldn't have tried so hard to look right if I knew it was gonna get me sidelined,” he grumbles. “And if this suit is so damn expensive, why couldn't you afford to make it work for your other occupation?”

            “It was designed for me specifically, as a gift from the Fashion House directly, and I couldn't very well explain to the lead designer what I do after hours,” Tim explains, digging through the console's thick layer of decoy junk to access the hidden compartment with a few of the more frequently utilized Bat accessories. Among the carefully hidden boxes is a full flight of coms. Tim pulls out a pair of them and passes one to the still-grumbling Jason.

            The coms run on a localized Bluetooth connection, linked to the power pack inside the case being slipped into a pocket on Jason’s cargo pants – which makes the coms difficult for outside connections to hack into, buying them like five whole minutes of radio silence from Barbara if she notices the oddity of their current course of action and decides to investigate.

            As he secures his own com in his ear, Tim promises, “He's _your_ asset, Jason, you get to lead the interview. There will be plenty of time for ass-kicking when we get to whatever safe house you feel comfortable holing up in while we get this sorted out. Just let me do the initial grab. I'll need you to guide me through the factory.”

            That does make Jason feel a _bit_ better about the situation, but only slightly.

            “Fine,” Jason grumbles. “But if you get my body killed, _again_ , I am so taking yours to the nearest strip joint. See how your reporter friends like _that_ shit _._ ”

            Tim ignores him.

            Which is kind of a shame, because Jason’s actually pretty damn amused by the thought.

            He would’ve enjoyed ribbing Tim a bit more with it.

            Jason’s line of thought on the matter is abruptly cut off, however, as instead of responding to Jason’s jibe, Tim leans over the center console without warning and invades Jason’s personal space. The sudden appearance of Jason’s figure towering over Tim’s tiny one – something Jason’s never really considered possible while they’re both just sitting inside a rather small cabin of a car – gets Jason flustered, makes Tim’s muscles all lock up.

            The sensation of Tim running Jason’s fingers deftly through his hair sends odd sparks down the skin wrapped around all of Jason’s limbs. Trapped inside Tim’s body as it has a strange little freak out, Jason holds perfectly still – Tim’s lungs have totally forgotten what air _is_ , let alone how to acquire any of it. Jason knew he was a bit touch-starved, and honestly touch- _shy,_ to a certain extent, but this is a little more extreme than he’d thought it would be.

            The pulse in Tim’s ears is almost loud enough to drown out the explanation coming out of Jason’s mouth as Tim says, “My hair is long enough to hide a com in daylight. You may as well actually _use_ that feature as intended.”

            Jason doesn’t recover from _whatever_ is happening to Tim’s stupid little body fast enough to answer immediately. It’s not until a solid two seconds after Tim’s withdrawn Jason’s hand that he regains control over his voice – and with a snort to cover the breathiness in his tone, he spiels out, “Never realized your ridiculous fashion sense had a practical value behind it.”

            Like the jibe about the strip club, Tim simply ignores it.

            “Just get me in and out of there with our soon-to-be new best friend,” Tim huffs, pulling away and stepping out of the car. Already striding towards the alleyway just off to the side of the coffee shop, Tim says, “Coffee will be waiting for you when you get me out with Massimo.”

            Fully recovering his faculties, Jason nabs a slim line pair of binoculars from the hidden back panel in the dashboard compartment and heads towards the Gotham Grind front entrance.

            As he steps inside, the scent of freshly brewing coffee and small-batch roasts of espresso make Tim’s body shudder with an acutely needy excitement.

            Growling under his breath as he walks, knowing that the com will have no trouble picking up the words loud and clear, Jason says seriously, “We _are_ gonna have to talk about this painful substance dependency issue you’ve got goin' on here.”

            “It's not an issue,” Tim retorts immediately. “It’s a socially acceptable habit and it's _fine_.”

            “The way _you_ drink it is _definitely_ an issue,” Jason fires back.

            His tone is mostly amusement, but there’s an underlying current of genuine concern he’s not entirely sure he wants Tim to hear.

            “Jeez, you sound almost as bad as Dick does with the big brothering,” Tim huffs with a distinct tinge of amusement. “Stop being a worry wart and just tell me where the target is.”

            “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda bossy?”

            “Well, regarding most of the people I interact with, I am quite literally their boss,” Tim quips smugly, “So it’s hardly an insult.”

            Jason allows himself to chuckle as Tim slips into the shadows of the alley leading up to the factory, but quickly refocuses.

            “Alright, looks like Massimo is on the third floor,” Jason relays as he reaches a good perch on the vacant terrace. “I've got a visual on him and three goons, with three on the middle level and then two more on the floor below. Nothin' else is warm or moving in there that I can see from here – and with Massimo runnin' a little light on the payroll this week, I’m surprised he’s even got that many friends.”

            There’s a tight coil of something in Jason’s gut as Tim slips into the factory.

            It’s a sensation that’s hard to sort through, but is definitely rooted in worry. There’s something of his worry for his own body in there, but that’s gotta be negligible as Jason’s a reckless shithead on a good day when it’s his own skin and his own pain receptors feeling any injuries. And there’s also worry for Tim, which is definitely stronger, because Tim’s out of sorts being stuck in Jason’s body and that’s _got_ to affect how he fights – even if Massimo’s goons are just pathetic little twerps hardly worth the Bats’ usual attention.

            But there’s something else too, something deeper that aches in Tim’s bones and Jason can’t unpack that one at all.

 

            The sound of Tim breathing easy over the coms is a small comfort.

 

            But there’s one moment, when it first starts, when Tim’s _not_ breathing so easy.

 

            It’s the very first guy Tim attempts to take down – a single punch to the pressure points Tim usually targets drops the goon flat. Tim sucks down a shocked and shaky breath and very obviously teeters on the edge of a panic attack – one that the bottled up whispers from Jason’s dip in the Lazarus Pit will seize upon to leverage their way out to play with if it starts to spiral too much further.

 

            It’s the Rule, Jason realizes.

 

            Bruce’s creed against killing, the _one_ Rule that he will never forgive a son for breaking.

            And Tim is absolutely convinced that he just broke it.

            The fact that it would’ve been an accident if he _had_ done so is entirely inconsequential.

            Bruce would never look at Tim the same way again.

            Tim would never be able to survive that kind of change – he _needs_ Bruce’s approval, Jason’s certain, needs it in a very different way than Dick or Jason himself ever did.

 

            Fortunately, for everyone involved, the goon Tim dropped groans heavily after a few seconds of stillness. A second later, Tim manages to draw a shaky breath.

            And then another.

            By the third, it’s evened out back into the meditational focus of the mission.

 

            After that Tim is more careful, moving almost gingerly. He takes two blows minimum to disable the guards, almost hilariously gentle jabs coming from Jason’s powerhouse figure. If _Jason_ had been behind the wheel, they’d have been outta there in less than two minutes flat.

            Still, it’s almost pitifully easy for Tim to take out the last goons and Massimo himself, all without letting any of them catch a glimpse of their attacker.

            As soon as Tim slings Massimo’s arm over his shoulder to drag him back out to the car, Jason slips his away from the terrace railing. He makes his way downstairs to collect the coffee order that Tim placed from the app before they’d gotten out of the car.

            Reflexively, Jason taps off his com as he hits the main floor.

            He’s gotten too used to needing to keep busybodies out of his business for leaving it on when the mission’s over to register. There’s exactly _zero_ hope of his staying connected to any of the Bats after an op without conscious reasoning proactively controlling his actions.

            He only intends to spend a few seconds picking up the order, but the girl behind the bar has a bolt through her eyebrow and a killer rack that makes itself known even under her ragdoll coffee shop uniform – and Jason’s never been one to resist an opportunity to flirt.

            The girl is eager to return his attentions. Because even if she can’t tell exactly how much money Tim has at his elegant fingertips, she can tell he’s a catch – handsome enough to melt hearts, rich enough to drop a big tip, and that Cheshire cat smile that could make anyone a bit weak at the knees. With Jason's long history of flirting, he’s honed the technique to an art and with just a few words he wins the girl's interest enough for her to slip him a folded up piece of register tape with her name and phone number on it.

            It doesn’t make his stomach – _Tim’s_ stomach – do any flips, but it’s still a fun little diversion. And something about how Tim’s physiology doesn’t react to the fact that she lets her fingertips brush the underside of his wrist in a way that is totally and utterly unnecessary, makes Jason irrationally happy. He refuses to think about it.

            As he steps out into view of the car, he lets the satisfaction of the encounter settle into his bones and turns his mind towards the upcoming interrogation.

            Jason’s hands are full of scones and coffee but he maneuvers his way into the car easily enough. Tim settles into his own seat – with a weird little pucker of dissatisfaction giving a slight quirk to his expression that quickly dissipates – and turns his focus onto the scones that Jason dumps in his lap.

            As Jason makes his way through one of Tim’s usual coffees – his fourth of the morning – and Tim chows down on his dense confectionaries, Jason drives them to a safe house.

 

            The same safe house they had stayed in last night.

 

            Tim realizes immediately that something’s up.

            He seems hesitant to push, but he does say carefully, “Jason? I thought we agreed that we needed to get somewhere secure, somewhere that the other Bats won’t be able to find us. This is the first place they’ll look.”

            “Uh huh, and they’ll find your car in the parking garage like it was when you parked it there when you came to visit as your daytime persona before patrol last night,” Jason explains, without explaining anything. It still rankles him that he has to give this secret up, and he resists the need to fess up until the last second – waiting to spill the beans until he’s dragged into the inevitable while kicking and screaming.

            Tim stares him down as he throws the car into park.

            Jason ignores him and gets out of the car. Tim hurriedly follows as Jason makes his way towards the trunk. This time, when Tim glares at him, Jason sighs.

            “Everybody knows about the apartment I lease here,” he says, “Only Babs knows I own the whole building. And even she’s in the dark about the Basement. It doesn’t have internet access, or anything. Hell, it doesn’t even have a phone line. It’s hidden on the grid, tacking the resources it uses like power and water onto the rest of the building’s utility gauges. The only access is a hidden staircase behind the vault-locked utilities closet. So it’s both the first place anyone will look, and the last place anyone will think of to actually find us.”

            “That’s actually pretty brilliant,” Tim admits, like he’d never considered it.

            That sends a thrill of triumph down Jason’s spine, a thrill that’s almost enough to completely bury the resentment he bears at having to give the secret up.

            “I might not be any kind of boy genius, Timmers,” Jason huffs, “But I have my moments. And don’t forget that I’ve spent the last six years or so learning how to hide from _Batman_.”

            “Yeah, I guess,” Tim says, his tone stilted and odd. It brightens significantly as he gets back to the safe house, “But still, this is a really great plan. We’ll have plenty of time and privacy to get this all figured out.”

            “Damn straight,” Jason agrees. Then he asks, “You got a go-bag in the car somewhere? I don’t have anything that’ll fit you in the Basement and your clothing choices upstairs are all fancy ass suits and your Red Robin gear.”

            “Yeah, um, under the middle row seat behind the driver,” Tim informs him.

            “Cool. I’ll grab that, while you get our new friend here out of the car. I’d help you haul his ass downstairs, but I think the duffle is gonna be hard enough to carry,” Jason quips with a smirk that shows he’s mostly joking. It’s very definitively only _mostly_ joking, though.

            With all of the distractions of executing the mission at hand, Jason’s been able to ignore the low throb of the constant ache in Tim’s muscles, but it hasn’t actually gone away.

            It’s hardly even abated in the last hour.

            Frowning with an odd sort of determined petulance, Tim huffs, “I’m not _that_ weak. I can carry a stupid duffle bag.”

            “Yeah? Well, _I_ can fling Massimo there around like a rag doll for a couple of hours and I still won’t wake up tomorrow feelin’ like a pin at the end of a bowling alley on a Saturday night.”

            “It’s _fine_ ,” Tim huffs, clearly a little more vehemently than he means to, “I can handle it.”

            He blinks in surprise at the tone.

            Jason knows that reaction. That’s the Pit starting to slip into the emotional pockets of his reactions rather than staying suffocated by the logical focus of the mission.

            This bizarre determination Tim has to run his body into the ground is an _emotional_ thing – a consequence, not a choice – and one that runs _way_ deeper than Jason ever imagined. It _will_ need to be addressed again later, but only under more controlled circumstances.

            Jason leaps away from the topic for the moment, knowing that if Tim can slip back into a mode with mission focus as his primary thought line, he won’t notice the abrupt shift in conversation topics. “Just get our new friend outta the trunk. I wanna get him secured downstairs before he starts waking up.”

            Tim complies without hesitation.

            Tim follows as Jason leads the way downstairs – dragging Massimo effortlessly all the way as Jason clears through all the layers of security he has guarding this safe house.

 

            Inside, it’s a nice place. One of Jason’s nicer safe houses, to be honest – well furnished, decently stocked with creature comforts, it even has cable.

            Jason can feel Tim’s brain going into overdrive as he takes it all in. While he gives Tim a brief moment to rein in his attention, Jason ducks into the spare room. He never anticipated having guests at a genuine safe house, but this one had enough rooms to set up a kind of extra bedroom for the other Outlaws or in case something truly unexpected occurred.

 

            Like swapping bodies with a fellow former Robin.

 

            Jason hopes that it won’t actually come to having Tim spend the night here, at least not because he _has_ to stay, but even if they do get back in their own bodies before it gets dark tonight, Jason anticipates that there’s gonna be some sort of side effect that would breed exhaustion at the very least. And Jason wants to stay hopeful about it all, but…

            Fixing things is definitely gonna be harder than just having a strongly worded conversation with Massimo. And even then…

            It’s likely that Tim will want to crash here even if they do fix things.

            Exhaustion and all that are things Jason knows Tim wants to hide from the Family.

 

            Jason had _thought_ that he could see through Tim’s mask of ease and calm collectedness to tell when he was tired, but if this whole _hit by a truck_ feeling is Tim’s fucking _usual_ level of soreness after a night like last night… then Tim’s built up a façade that even Bruce won’t be able to see through. Maybe even _Alfred_.

            So, it’s _very_ likely that Tim won’t want to go back right away, if only to give himself a little time to recover before he has to face the music with the Family.

 

            While Jason’s detoured to dump Tim’s duffle in the spare room, Tim has continued to drag Massimo down the main hall to the steel-doored room at the end that screams ‘holding cell’ to anyone with eyes and even a passing knowledge of action, adventure, or horror movies.

            Inside there’s a single aluminum chair bolted to the center of the floor facing the blank concrete of the back wall. There’s a secure cabinet built into the steel wall with the door that Jason uses his 10-digit code to open – and another 10-digit code to override the bioprint lock, fortunately enough paranoia _does_ come in handy on the odd and awful occasion – revealing an array of handcuffs and implements to secure and question a less than willing subject.

            Jason’s not sure how torture-tolerant Tim is these days, so he uses his body to block the cabinet from view – or rather, he attempts to block it as best he can while Tim’s slim shoulders are all he has to work with. Working quickly, Jason pulls out a standard set of steel cuffs and connecter chains to secure Massimo upright to the chair, and a blackout head bag that conforms to the subject’s face with distortion filters over the ears and a vent for air that gets glued around the nose and mouth with almost as much immovable security as the Bats’ domino masks get glued down onto their faces as a last line of identity defense.

 

            Closing up the cabinet as Tim huffs with the relief of letting Massimo’s weight fall onto the chair, Jason turns and passes Tim the cuffs and chain to secure their guest while he focuses on getting the head bag settled into place.

 

            “It’s gonna take our new friend a minute to wake up here,” Jason acknowledges once they’ve got him entirely secure. “Why don’t you grab a snack from the kitchen while I go change into something more appropriate for head-bashing?”

            “It’s a _conversation,_ Jason,” Tim sighs, confirming Jason’s theory of Tim being rather more torture _intolerant_ than helpful at the moment. But he doesn’t say anything else to directly chastise Jason’s characterization of the upcoming interrogation and he willingly heads back towards the kitchen – allowing Jason peace and privacy to engage the security features on the holding cell’s vault like door.

 

            Jason appreciates that respectfulness – Tim doesn’t _need_ to be so polite, after all, he could very easily linger and lurk and force Jason to compromise every last bit of this safe house’s security. But he apparently has no intention to do so and is carefully demonstrating that he trusts Jason enough to leave him with a few secrets.

 

________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so not much forward plot movement... but I promise that the pace will be picking up soon, Jason just has a LOT of internalized angst that he feels needs to be addressed. <3


	6. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim FINALLY realizes a few very important things about body-swapping...
> 
> He also learns a thing or two about Jason, and about himself.
> 
> There's some progress made on the case, too, but Tim's focus on it is more divided than he'd like to admit...  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim is an oblivious idiot with a genius IQ that is not at all helpful in practical life-awareness issues. It takes being smacked in the face with his feelings for him to realize that he HAS feelings...
> 
> Also WARNING: Timmy has a pretty brutal panic attack in this with absolutely poisonous and very flawed thought processes creating a spiral (with help from the Pit), the worst of it is between double asterisks (**), so if it's gonna bother you, ctrl+F ** and just skip it. <3  
> _

 

**Chapter 6 – Research (Tim)**

 

            Jason’s body relaxes dramatically the moment it crosses the threshold of the Basement safe house – the tension in the body’s muscles loosening up like it knows that _this_ place is truly safe in the way the apartment upstairs has only ever pretended to be.

            Something behind Tim’s lungs – well, Jason’s lungs, and Tim’s not sure if the reaction is Jason’s physiology or Tim’s own psychology – aches at the thought of how he only feels safe _here_ … in a Basement below an empty apartment where his Family thinks they can’t find him. Close to people who care about him, but somehow still far away from being close enough.

            Tim distracts himself from the thought by looking around Jason’s _real_ safe house.

            Inside, it’s a nice enough place.

            Not as nice as the apartment upstairs, that one’s been furnished by a dozen different hands and it shows in how polished and put together and perfect it is.

            This one’s all Jason.

            It’s rather Spartan, if Tim is honest – Spartan, but not exactly bare. All the furnishings are utilitarian, and clearly well-loved and cared for exactly as they suit the purpose Jason intends them for… but there aren’t any pictures, or superfluous decorations, or aimless chairs set up for feng shui or balance or whatnot.

            It’s just stuff that Jason wants, directly for the use they provide.

            Tim thinks he kinda likes that idea.

            Nothing here has a place without a purpose.

 

            Jason darts away to toss Tim’s go bag into a spare bed room as Tim continues to drag Massimo down the hall. It’s obvious where Jason intends to stash him. At the end of the main hall there’s a steel-doored room that screams ‘holding cell’ to anyone with eyes and even a passing knowledge of action, adventure, or horror movies.

            Inside there’s a single aluminum chair bolted to the center of the floor facing the blank concrete of the back wall. There’s a secure cabinet built into the steel wall with the door that Jason uses a few lengthy codes pressed into a machine lock’s keypad to open.

            Tim sets Massimo down on the chair as Jason tries to block his view of the array behind the false wall of his embedded cabinet. The stuff he keeps there is stuff he knows Tim will disapprove of… and Tim tries to respect that, but his body’s shoulders are really scrawny and Jason doesn’t really know how to use what Tim has to work with properly to block an observer’s view – honestly, even Tim struggles to hide things from someone as tall as Jason, and he _knows_ how the angles work best for it.

            Tim’s not sure if the kick to the gut he feels is from the fact that Jason feels the need to hide something specific from him, or from the fact that it’s so easy to see passed him that Tim looks without even meaning to do it. Or if it's because of what he sees.

 

            Torture implements.

 

            Jason’s got a cabinet full of torture implements. On hand. Gleaming and ready to use.

 

            Tim knows that Jason is the Red Hood, that he’s not exactly a hero in the same way that Gotham’s other capes are heroes, but he’s still one of the good guys. Right? He’s got the no killing thing nailed down. Mostly. It’s been 6 months since he killed anyone – an accident even.

            Which may not be the best track record someone could have in terms of not murdering anyone, but for Jason… it’s progress. Not _great_ progress, but progress.

            Like how it’s been just over 9 months since the last near-ish, but distinctly _not,_ fatal injury against a Bat. It was only even a close call because Jason reacted on instinct and then consciously pulled back on the reaction _well_ before making contact.

            And Damian hardly counts, considering that the demon spawn’s goal in life is making his siblings try to kill him so he can prove that he can kill them better first. Tim was totally just collateral damage in the fight between the two of _them_. An accident.

            It’s fine.

            And Tim’s fine, having gotten back on the streets and back at work with Wayne Enterprises within a few, okay five, days of being sidelined.

            And Damian’s fine. He got back out on patrol after only a week.

            His own fault really. He’d tried to push it and tore his stitches and his wound up sidelined for another three days. That’s not Jason’s fault. Not at all.

 

            Tim knows he sounds like he’s making desperate excuses in some sort of bizarre, abusive relationship and maybe he is, but the Bat Family is not exactly a picture perfect example of steady mental health. They’re all a little damaged. More than a little.

            And hurt people hurt people.

            The Bats just take it all a bit more literally than most people.

 

            He loves his Family.

 

            Even if they’re all just a mess of violent, emotionally repressed screw ups.

            Tim doesn’t know if it’s Jason’s tools on hand that scare him, the easy and immediate _accessibility_ of them, or if it’s the way they indicate he’s not exactly against torture in a manner far more direct than hearing of it second-hand that does it. Or if it’s the way he’s not entirely sure he _cares_ that Jason is willing to torture scum-bags to help save the victims of their crimes.

            He can’t help but wonder if Jason’s ever had anyone stashed down here while he or the other Bats were lounging around upstairs, completely oblivious.

 

            Tim refocuses as Jason passes him some sturdy cuffs to secure their guest and sets about getting a fancy head bag into place while he lets Tim do the rest.

            Once they have Massimo locked down, Jason leans back with a satisfied sigh.

            “It’s gonna take our new friend a minute to wake up here,” Jason acknowledges once they’ve got him entirely secure. “Why don’t you grab a snack from the kitchen while I go change into something more appropriate for head-bashing?”

            “It’s a _conversation,_ Jason,” Tim sighs – heavily, but trying not to let on how much it worries him that Jason can joke about all that. About his death and his dirty dealings and such.

            Isn’t quite sure why it’s bothering him so much more today than it usually does.

            He doesn’t say anything else to directly chastise Jason’s characterization of the upcoming interrogation. And he willingly heads back down the hall towards the kitchen – because _some_ how, he’s already hungry _again_ – and he diligently gives Jason legitimate privacy to engage the security features on the holding cell door.

 

            When Tim makes it to the kitchen, he dives at a bowl of fruit – suddenly craving the bananas there that he didn’t even realize he’d noticed on the way inside as he’d moved Massimo toward the holding cell.

            He’s almost finished with his snack when Jason reappears.

 

            Tim nearly chokes on his last few bites of banana as he looks his own figure over.

            Jason’s dressed him in his own typical work out tights, but also in one of Jason’s tank tops – that _drowns_ Tim’s skinny frame – with one of Jason’s endless arsenal of hoodies thrown over it. Tim’s brain blanks out for a bit.

 

**            He’s not sure exactly what does it.

 

            If it’s the shock of seeing his own figure decked in Jason’s clothes – _Jason’s_ , of _all_ people… like he hasn’t idolized the man since he was ten, like he hasn’t dreamt about how it would feel to wear one of Jason’s ridiculously soft shirts, just once, like he hasn’t ever imagined how one of Jason’s shirts would feel, would _smell_ , would make _him_ feel…

            Or if it’s seeing his own scrawny shape drowning in the fabric – his sharp collarbones sticking out at painful angles, his too pale skin showing off his utter lack of sun exposure, with some of his very worst scars in full view for anyone to see… And his _hair_ … it’s twisted up in a ridiculous little man-bun that somehow isn’t ridiculous and it makes Tim’s face seem so much more like Jason’s than he would’ve ever imagined possible.

            Tim would never dress himself the way Jason’s dressed him.

            But it makes something stir in his stomach – something pleasant in a way Tim _really_ doesn’t want to think about…

            And then it strikes him hard: Tim would never dress the way Jason’s dressed him – but _Jason_ has _dressed_ him. Which means Jason has _undressed_ him.

 

            Holy _frack_.

 

            Jason’s taken a _shower_ already – seen every inch of skin he hides beneath his thermals, likely touched it all as well.

            Tim’s vision goes a bit hazy – Jason’s heartbeat kicking up dramatically to pound in his ears with an obnoxiously loud thump-thump-thump that begins to spiral away. He’s mortified.

            Shocked and embarrassed and flat out horrified at what Jason’s seen of him – at what he must be thinking about poor little Timmy.

            Poor, weak and defenseless, little Timmy.

 

            The Robin that other Robins want to kill.

 

            He’s supposed to be a genius.

            How the _hell_ did he not realize what would be involved with a body swap?

            That Jason would _have_ to see beneath his clothes eventually?

 

            That fact alone is enough to set Tim’s head spinning, but beyond that thought is the idea that Jason couldn’t possibly like what he saw there – all of Tim’s scars and significant lack of muscle… unattractive on the best of days.

            And at the very _least_ it would make Jason remember acutely how close he’d come to killing Tim once, not to mention how it would show him just how often other people nearly killed Tim – how all too frequently and regularly the near-killing took place...

            Tim was pathetic and weak and Jason had always stepped in to protect him – had always _needed_ to protect him. There’d been that brief blip of time when even _Jason_ had been trying to kill him, but it had been very brief. But so many other people had tried to kill him, and so many of them had gotten uncomfortably close… because Tim wasn’t good enough, even now, even after all these years of hard work and training and effort…

 

            And now Jason’s seen all that first hand.

 

            Seen Tim’s body stripped bare, revealing everything… and maybe Tim has fantasized about that once or twice, or maybe a bit more frequently that that… Of course, that would’ve been in slightly different circumstances. He’s idolized Jason forever, after all.

 

            And Jason is … well, he’s _Jason_ frickin _Todd_.

 

            Gorgeous is a word for people like Dick Grayson, while Jason’s more… _compelling_.

            He’s built like a tank and somehow almost sexier in sweats and a hoodie than Dick is in those traumatizing, skin tight gymnastic shorts.

            The thought of Jason seeing him, _touching_ him under the hot flow of water in the shower… it all makes Tim’s head spin with heady desire that hits him out of nowhere.

            He's better than this, had put the prepubescent pining part of himself firmly aside – pretended it away until he'd managed to out grow it.

            The thought of Jason seeing him though… seeing and disapproving of his weakness… because he _is_ weak. He is and always will be.

            And now even Jason knows it plainly.

            A bubble of hysterical laughter threatens to escape from the closed up lungs trapped inside his too-tight chest. It’s ridiculous, irrational.

            A laugh echoes in his head. He’s not sure if it’s his or if it’s just a phantasm.

 

            And then suddenly Jason’s there – a hand on the side of Tim’s face and another on his shoulder; one squeezing and solid, the other light and gentle and supportive.

            “Tim? I need you to breathe for me, okay? Just breathe through it,” Jason tells him.

            The hand on his shoulder flits away briefly, goes to one of Tim’s balled fists. Jason lifts Tim’s hand and peals his fingers out of the fist. Places the flat of his palm against Jason’s own chest – against _Tim’s_ chest, with his fingertips brushing pale skin. Sparking at the contact.

            It almost sets Tim off again.

 

            But the ritual is familiar enough to halt the advance.

            They’ve all had panic attacks, all learned how to help each other through them.

            All had way to much practice with working through it in real world circumstances.

 

            “Come on, baby bird,” Jason croons, hand back to squeezing Tim’s shoulder, “I know you can do this. Just breathe for me. We got all the time in the world to work it out, just breathe.”

            It’s slow going, but Tim manages to force himself to settle.

            It’s hard to stuff the insecurities back into the box he’s created for them, but with Jason standing by – concerned and patient – Tim manages to make himself fit back into propriety.

            He looks awkwardly away from Jason – who he’d been staring at directly, _obnoxiously_ since Jason had first invaded his space to interrupt the panic cycle – and tries to pull his hand away from Jason’s chest.

            Jason doesn’t let him go.

            “Tim?”

            “I’m fine,” Tim promises. Sullen, embarrassed… guilty. “Sorry.”

            Jason hesitates. Pulls a breath in and slowly lets it out.

            “You don’t have to apologize, Tim,” Jason tells him, “Not to me, _never_ to me. If anything, I should apologize to you.”

            “Jason,” Tim sighs, disheartened despite himself. “You’ve never meant to hurt me.”

            “Not that,” Jason says quickly, before Tim can get rolling on his usual argument. “I mean, _yes,_ that… but not for this. I should’ve warned you… It’s not always immediate, and it’s not always obvious or loud or clear… but that… extra kick behind your panic? That’s the Pit.”

            Tim frowns.

            Evaluates what Jason’s saying with a clinical eye.

            He’s always been insecure – is still always worried about whether or not Jason thinks he’s a failure of a replacement. How can he not, really? How could Tim be anything but useless?

            Tim jerks back with a violent flinch as Jason squeezes his shoulder again. Hard.

            “ _That_ Tim. _That’s_ the Pit,” Jason reiterates. “You can’t listen to it, even when it sounds like it’s nothing but the usual thoughts inside your own head. That’s the Pit and you can’t let it tell you what you’re thinking. Find the trigger point and move passed it. I know you can do it.”

            Trigger point.

            What’s the trigger point?

            His uselessness. That’s the trigger. Mostly.

            But it’s also that Jason has _seen_ the hard evidence of his uselessness…  


            But Tim has always been useless.

            He started out useless and got better.

            Not great, but better.

 

            Good enough.

 

            He’s never going to be as good as Jason could’ve been if he hadn’t died – or even be able to get as effortlessly good as Jason was _before_ he died, because that kind of gut instinct for how a bad guy’s gonna move or what a victim _needs_ from him just can’t be taught.

            It’s deeper than experience, an intuition that is just a part of the bone deep _something_ that makes Jason who he is – that was enough to help _Jason_ come back from the vengeful specter of the Red Hood that came out from the vile, corrupting depths of the Lazarus Pit.

            And he knows he won’t ever live up to Dick Grayson’s kind-hearted ease with people and the magical effortlessness of his movements, but he was never going to be able to compare to any of that to begin with. He didn’t measure up to either of them, never even attempted to delude himself into thinking that he could – not at any point in this, even from the very start.

            Tim _knew_ that going in.

            He didn’t care.

 

            Tim had decided it didn’t matter that he wasn’t good enough. He was never going to be good enough, but being good enough wasn’t as important as trying hard enough and Tim _nailed_ that bit. He’d fought his way to adequacy and earned his place in the Crusade.

            _He_ did that.

            When everyone around him kept saying that he couldn’t.

 

            Tim might still be useless compared to most of the other capes, but he’s never let that stop him from being a hero – and he never will.

 

            So, yes, he is useless, but he doesn’t care.

 

            And maybe Jason _has_ seen it now, but Jason’s smart.

            Jason would’ve never thought Tim was good enough. Maybe he hadn’t seen the hard evidence proving that before now, but Jason has always known that Tim was the weak link, the one that needed to be watched and looked after.

            It’s why Jason hadn’t killed him when they first ran into each other after he’d got back from the Pit – Jason had overpowered him easily, had cut him out of the Robin uniform, and then decided not to finish the job because he just didn’t _need_ to do it.

 

            Tim didn’t measure up, and Jason knew that, even through the haze of the Pit.

 

            And that should’ve been obvious, because Jason had taken that shower _hours_ ago… okay, maybe it was just two and a half hours ago, but still… _plural_ hours ago … and he’d seen the evidence of Tim’s failure to be the kind of hero he was supposed to be – his failure to live up to the exact caliber of invulnerable vigilante he _pretended_ to be – and he hadn’t reacted in any way to seeing it. He already knew, so seeing evidence wouldn’t change things.

            It wouldn’t make Jason treat him differently or think any less of him.

 

            Objectively, _observably_ , it already hadn’t.

 

            If seeing his scars was going to make Jason treat him differently, Tim would already have noticed the effects of it.

            So… that means that everything is fine.

 

            Tim is useless. Jason knows it. Everything is exactly the same… it’s all okay.

            It’s not great. But very little in Tim’s world is great. So, it’s fine.

 

            Jason gives his shoulder another squeeze.

            “That’s it, Tim, just let it all go,” Jason tells him. “You’re doing great, baby bird.”

            Tim fights with his throat to force a swallow down.

 

**            “Jason?”

 

            This time, Jason is the one who looks away.

            He doesn’t relinquish his hold on Tim’s shoulder or let Tim’s hand fall from his chest, but he tilts back to put some more space between them.

 

            “The Pit isn’t gone,” Jason admits without looking at Tim. “The detox thing only kinda worked. It’s still there, waiting for some emotional spike to latch onto. I thought you might be… okay. You’re logical, less emotion-based than I am, so I just thought… Sorry, I didn’t warn you.”

 

            “Jason,” Tim sighs, trying to figure out how to word it delicately enough to get an answer when he has almost no right to hear it.

            He gives up and asks simply, “Are… are you okay?”

 

            “Nah, Timmers, I don’t really think I am,” Jason confesses. “And sad as it is, you’ve gotta deal with that shit until we get this sorted out.”

 

            Tim looks Jason over carefully – trying to read his own stupid face to parse out some emotive structure in the mask he’s spent a lifetime building up. He looks… _sad_. Remorseful.

            Like he really means his words and isn’t just saying that the Lazarus Pit is what’s behind Tim’s particularly ridiculous freak out here to excuse the excess of it.

 

            Jason’s been dealing with the Pit’s gnawing influence all alone – while the rest of the Family, Tim included, has been pretending that Jason’s been totally cured of it, like the anger and instability of the Pit was nothing more sinister than a mild heroin addiction or something.

            Methadone and done, because Bats are better than that.

 

            When it really was a constant, unending struggle… when it _still_ **_is_** …

 

            Jason clears his throat roughly and moves away from Tim with jerky motions.

            It’s hard for him to admit this, Tim realizes.

            Jason’s struggling all alone and the hardest thing about it is admitting that the fight goes on, despite how the Family has been thinking that he’d already won it.

            Getting the details that he has is already more than Tim has any right to have expected, so he lets Jason pull away – instantly misses the warm feeling of the contact between them.

 

            Clearing his throat again, Jason scrubs a hand over his face and makes a broad gesture towards the far end of the kitchen counter.

 

            “There’s a laptop over there hardwired into an internet connection tied to an empty apartment upstairs,” Jason explains in stilted bursts, “You can use it to do whatever research you think is necessary while I go talk to Massimo. I mean, you can come… if you want… to ask your own questions, but uh, there’s an intercom wired into the cell that connects to the laptop in case you want to just… wait here. You can use that to let me know if you think of anything. And it might be best to take it easy after… yeah. And, um, there's a pack of cigs and a lighter in the drawer under the laptop… it'll uh… _help_ , kinda. So. Yeah…”

 

            Jason’s off and bustling away before Tim fully processes the jumbled thoughts.

 

            He wavers, knowing that Jason will likely be using a bit of excessive force on Massimo to work off some steam from the anxiety of watching Tim’s stupid panic attack. He doesn’t want to be a baby sitter, to make Jason think he doesn’t trust him, and he also doesn’t really want to watch Jason do his Red Hood kind of thing. Besides, being able to immediately research whatever new avenues of intelligence Jason’s conversation uncovers is highly appealing.

            And Tim thinks it might be best to take it easy, as Jason mentioned.

 

            At the very least, to keep a bit of distance between himself and Jason.

 

            Because Jason’s seen him naked now.

 

            This time, the thought doesn’t spark a spiral, but it does bring an embarrassed flush to Tim’s cheeks – a heat that crawls slowly up his neck in a display that would be mortifying if Jason were there to see it. Would be worse if Jason could understand it, could even guess at the feelings Tim wouldn’t have been able to hide behind it.

            Which is an _entirely separate_ can of worms to weed through…

            Tim squashes all thoughts of Jason and nakedness and anything like that – turning his full focus to the laptop Jason had pointed out.

 

            And to the pack of cigarettes Jason mentioned.

            The twitchiness he feels – or at least the worst of it, he hopes – is the nicotine craving. It feels enough now like it did before breakfast to make him think his hope might not be ridiculous.

            Lighting up the second time is easier than it was before breakfast, but he still feels really awkward trying to manipulate the pieces… Tim is very glad Jason isn’t here to see him fumble.

            Tim is very glad Jason isn’t here at all right now.

            Tim has grown up, and he’s better than his teenage crush – knows better than to let himself fall back into old, bad habits like pining idiotically after something he can’t have…

            He's being ridiculous, and it needs to stop.

 

            The cigarette does help.

 

            Somehow.

            The zing of energy that trickles through him from the nicotine is calming – much like how taking tea instead of coffee at the end of a long day is for Tim when he's in his own body.

            There's still caffeine in it, and it still wakes him up, but gently and in a way that makes him focused and relaxed.

            And the nicotine settles his anxiety as well as his irksome fidgetiness.

            It allows him to think back over the panic attack. To think it over and analyze what happened with a clear and emotionally detached mind.

            Jason said it was the Pit that gave his panic extra kick, and now that he’s not actively fighting down the feelings and his old insecurities at once, he can admit that it might've been a more severe, and quickly escalating, reaction than he'd been expecting.

            Than he’d ever had before.

            And Jason said it was linked to his emotive response – said he hadn’t thought Tim relied so heavily on his emotions that the Pit's added influence would be impactful.

            Tim's not sure if that means Jason thinks he’s some sort of emotionless robot, and equally unsure if he should consider it a compliment or not.

 

            It makes sense of why his thoughts triggered the spiral, though.

 

            Tim makes a point to separate himself from his emotions, typically… but everything with Jason still hits him pretty hard – yanks on old, sentimental scars that are too much a part of why he is who he is to really set aside entirely. Even if he could pretend to want to.

            Jason seeing his skin be bared just hits him from so many different angles of angst… it makes sense for the Pit to exploit such a gaping open wound. Tim has already let it fester after all… and the blunt _surprise_ of the realization, how it hit him all at once with no warning, no way to mentally prepare himself… yeah, it makes sense.

            Calmer now – because of a compounding influence from the nicotine, the physical distance between him and Jason, and the effect of cool headed analysis – Tim can actually _focus_ when he turns his attention to Jason's laptop.

            It’s not much fancier than standard store bought tech – just enhanced with a few Bat-level security features – so it boots up nice and quick.

            Tim brings up the official manifest of the shipment they busted last night and unfortunately confirms that he has no idea what could possibly be special about it. There’s hardly anything even being truly smuggled – mostly it’s just stuff with forged papers from Egypt and that the goods were okayed by the government to allow their export. All of what Tim’s thinks actually came _in_ to the US seems like it’s actually registered to come here.

            The buyers are harder to pin down, but a few private collectors with some pretense of exotic tastes buying up old oil lamps because they think it’s somehow makes them seem special are of no concern to Tim.

            The Gotham Natural History Museum on the other hand … _that's_ a buyer worth looking into more closely.

            Tim researches who the current Director of Acquisitions for the museum's Egyptian Collection, and what other acquisitions she's made recently. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything intentionally shady going on – nothing outside of illegally removing artifacts from their home country, anyway… which frankly is hardly surprising considering how jaded the US is that England got to explore Egypt before they had a government in place to prevent them from just taking absolutely everything they wanted.

            London’s Natural History Museum has twice as much in its forgotten third closet than the Smithsonian has managed to acquire at all.

            Most curators aren’t abjectly vicious, or truly ill-intentioned.

            But they can be… overly zealous when the opportunity arises to exploit a grey area.

 

            Some of what's on the manifest is Assyrian, Tim notes, and the observation of how some of the artifacts could really be from a mix of contemporary cultures spurs him to consider calling up Hawkgirl… Shayera, and her past lives, have a direct experience with such objects.

            But there's a level of mistrust between the Bats and the alien demi-goddess.

            Not one that affects how well they can work together, but one that means Tim usually feels like neither side is willing to play all their cards – something he's never felt from any of the Supers or the Wonders, who’d be just as likely to know the answers. And this is a very personal issue – one that they can solve on their own unless proven otherwise after _vigorous_ testing.

            Besides, it’s not guaranteed that Shayera, or the Kryptonians, or the Amazons, will have the answers. There’s a few other people in the cape community who might know, most even _less_ trustworthy – immortals and such, like Constantine, Morningstar, hell even Ra’s al Ghul. Tim and Jason could contact about them it too, but truthfully there’s no reason to think _any_ of them will have the right answer.

 

            And until they get truly desperate, Tim would prefer to handle this in house – and he knows Jason would agree without any kind of doubt.

 

            Tim refocuses on the Director of Acquisitions.

            Runs a deeper background check.

 

            Sighs when that one still comes up entirely clean.

 

            Since he can’t figure out what questions to ask Massimo, and he can’t immediately tell what involvement or personal motivation Director Anna Dyer has with the individual items she's acquired, unless Jason gets something spectacularly detailed from Massimo – which is possible, but unlikely – they will probably have to pay Ms. Dyer a visit.

            To facilitate that visit, Tim taps into the employee calendar – hardly even hacks to see it, honestly. It only has a mild encryption on it and it’s been left on the Cloud with ease of access for employees being made paramount. It means that Tim can get a copy of Ms. Dyer’s entire schedule, and because it's synced to her phone the schedule itself is linked to her private appointment app which gives him complete access to her life as she’s arranged it.

            If she had been the spontaneous sort, this technique wouldn't have worked nearly as well as it does, but Anna is a meticulous A Type and she had her days scheduled down to fifteen minute intervals. Tim suspects that level of meticulousness may be partly due to the fact that the default time frame for her day planner app is fifteen minutes, but still.

            It means that Tim knows exactly where she'll be all afternoon.

 

            If Jason comes up dry with Massimo, they still have an active lead to follow.

 

            Tim goes to voice his conclusion – he still has his com in, after all – only to realize that, while Jason may still have his com _in_ , he hasn’t had it turned _on_ since the coffee shop.

            A frown threatens as Tim wonders why he always does that, why his default move after completing an operation requiring coms is to immediately turn his connection off.

 

            Before he does anything to act on it by interacting with Jason, Tim decides to google it… he’s doing research anyway, after all. He might’ve been researching a shipment of Egyptian antiquities and the museum dealer that encouraged their acquisition by any means necessary, but research is research and google doesn’t mind abrupt topic changes.

            What he comes up with is enlightening.

 

            Substantially more helpful than his Egyptian research…

 

            The jump to being incommunicative isn’t new in Jason, but it’s still a symptom of PTSD, but likely an effect of his childhood in Crime Alley… it’s much harder to keep the parts of your life separated, keep the stories spun about them straight, if there’s someone looking or listening over your shoulder through everything. Keeping things separated, segregated, consciously and neatly compartmentalized… it’s more than an ingrained habit, it’s a coping mechanism.

            And after the Pit, after coming back as Red Hood… running up a list of hundreds more stories spun and truths nudged… and having done things he’s not proud of for a mix of good reasons and bad reasons and all the while knowing that nothing he could ever do could really keep Babs from spying on him if she really wanted to…

            Yeah, that wouldn’t help at all.

            So even if he knows that the com connection isn’t entirely cut when he turns it off, it’s at least a conscious signal he can use to say ‘back off’… and the fact that he usually leaves the com in – that if Babs does force her way in to say something, he’s there to answer – that’s a good sign, at least according to the internet.

            It’s an acceptance of connection, a willingness to accept the discomfort of being unable to escape entirely in exchange for being able to be there if one the Bats in the Family needs him as back up when things get hairy.

 

            Tim dives into the PTSD research, starts digging into trauma and recovery studies in reputable psychology journals.

            He knows Dick has taken classes on psych before, though his focus was mostly on criminal psych rather than recovery psychology. Wonders if Dick’s looked any of this up on his own to attempt to help with Jason… He probably has, but Tim thinks Dick might be the kind of guy who’d get stuck in thinking that needing psychological help means something’s wrong… not that Dick would ever mean to be ableist or counterproductive, but Dick would likely want to believe that Jason can handle his issues with nothing but the Family’s help.

            Tim should ask Babs for her more level-headed help.

            He knows there’s no way that _she_ hasn’t done research on this.

 

            Tim resolves to meet up with her for lunch as soon as they get this body swap thing figured out – resolves to do more to truly _help_ Jason. He’d thought it was enough that he’d managed to help Jason help himself in terms of reestablishing vague ties with the Family.        

            He’d thought that wanting to do more was just his crush talking – just that stupid little teenage twist of him clinging to any excuse to hang around his idol a bit longer.

            Tim has been phasing himself out – less dramatically than the first time he tried, and less completely. Tim is Red Robin, he owns that now and is going to continue to be the hero he can be for Gotham… but with Jason finally starting to come back into the Family for real… Tim knows that he’s the link in the chain that has to give.

            Tim is completely self-sufficient, financially speaking, and he’s the least emotionally dependent on Familial proximity. Someone has to back away to let Jason back in, and that someone should be Tim.

            Even so, Tim needs to help Jason, really _help_ him.

            It’s not just his unwillingness to leave prompting that much, and Tim understands that now – and because of it, he can more effectively act both in helping Jason, and backing off enough to let him fit easily back into the Family. If it’s not just his crush talking, then he doesn’t have to back so far away that it _stops_ talking… he can stay close enough to be involved and help Jason properly while still giving room.

 

            It’s good. Better.

 

            He shunts off a good load of data to a jump drive – not wanting to compromise the security of Jason’s safe house by uploading it directly to his private server. Even if it was through heavily encrypted channels, Babs could follow them back here.

            She probably already knows about this place, but on the off chance that she doesn’t…

 

            And then getting back to his original frustration… Jason and coms and the fact that he had news before he got distracted. Not good news, maybe, but news…

 

            The fact that the com in Jason’s ear is off means Tim can’t hear the interrogation. He doesn’t think that Jason’s being _too_ rough, thinks the lack of coms is just making him _think_ Jason’s consciously turned him off to keep him from hearing sounds of torture.

            He hopes, at least.

 

            Jason mentioned an intercom system.

            It takes a bit of poking around, but he finds it patched directly into the computer’s hardware… it’s both crudely attached – duct tape and a frickin’ _paper clip_ – and yet still elegantly worked into the system, perfectly _Jason_ in every hallmark of the handiwork.

            It’s a physical trigger, rigged to the escape key.

            With a _paper clip_.

            Stuck through a hole in the circuit board Tim’s fairly certain isn’t supposed to be there.

 

            Before he can question whether or not he should be wearing rubber gloves to do this, Tim presses the trigger. “Red Robin to Red Hood. Your intercom is a fire hazard. Turn your com back on or I will not be held responsible for when your safe house is literally burned.”

            A low _bing_ sounds in his ear.

            Along with the tail end of a chuckle.

 

            “Embrace the danger, Red, live a little,” Jason returns easily.

            But Tim _knows_ that little huff in the back of his own throat, knows that edge to his own tone because he’s spent years trying to hide it. That huff is relief.

            Jason left Tim out here to process, gave a means of communication and then backed off leaving the ball in Tim’s court. It’s fairly probable that Jason did not anticipate Tim being terribly willing to cross that bridge – even considering how circumstances make it unavoidable.

            Probable that he felt certain that even if Tim _did_ cross the bridge, it would be with awkwardness or maybe even anger… that this joking and normality is good and unexpected.

 

            “I jump off buildings for kicks and sneak Batman decaf, I live plenty,” Tim shoots back, electing to completely ignore the fact that Jason’s ignoring his own anxiety enough to make it bleed through the cage Tim’s cultivated around it.

            They’ll deal with that later.

 

            For now, they have bigger problems.

            “You getting anywhere with our new friend?”

 

            “Oh, yeah, me and Viggy here are gettin’ _real_ close,” Jason says, and Tim can hear the grimace. “Unfortunately, bugger’s got like two brain cells and nothin’ in between ‘em but air. Ran out of conversation before the salad course finished, so I’m looking to stuff the breadsticks in my pockets and get the hell out of this date while I can.”

            “Ask him about Anna first.”

            “Who?”

            “Anna Dyer, Director of Acquisitions for the Gotham Natural History Museum,” Tim elaborates. “Ask Massimo if Zagitova was especially proud of any unique items he’d managed to acquire for her. Evgeni Zagitova likes to flirt and Anna double majored in International Literature as well as Archeology and Museum Studies, she’ll like the stories attached to any special items and Zagitova will have been eager to provide.”

 

            “Will do,” Jason says, like he intends to click the com back off for the questioning.

 

            If he does, Tim will have to go check on him – really doesn’t want to have things come to that. He doesn’t care much for the comfort of criminals, but torture…

            More than that, torture hurts the participants on both sides of the exchange. While the victim is the worst off by any estimate, Tim doesn’t want anything else to impede Jason’s ability to recover from the Pit, especially now that he knows how constant the struggle to keep the Pit’s influence smothered is for Jason.

 

            Fortunately, Jason seems to rethink the action and leaves the line open.

 

            His questioning technique is not exactly _friendly,_ but it’s also not any kind of brutal, and certainly isn’t the kind of rough that Tim thinks should be even mildly concerning.

            It’s cleverly conversational and quickly gets Tim exactly what he needs.

 

            The Heka Ariset.

 

            A mirror so old that _Cleopatra_ revered it’s purported history. She kept it in a jewel encrusted gold and glass box. According to what Zagitova told Massimo, Cleopatra regaled guests at all her dinner parties about the ancient object’s magical history.

 

            Tim gets googling.

 

            Finds a few credible journals citing the story and validating that the object in question was probably a genuine artifact – some specific mirror that Cleopatra kept close for reasons other than its practical value.

            None of the academic journals he can find go into much detail about the exact legends surrounding the mirror’s history, or what the special powers Cleopatra claimed it had actually _were_ , but they do validate that it was special, and that it was a real, lost object that could have the potential to be found.

            Anna Dyer’s on-going doctoral dissertation involves the influence of magical objects like the Heka Ariset, somehow linking them to both fictional mythologies and historical events of noteworthy political upheaval – at least according to the frustratingly vague blog post on the museum’s Staff Highlights page.

 

            She seems to claim that the romance of the mystique was a far more literal and impactful concept in social landscape of Egyptian Antiquity than previously believed.

 

            It means almost nothing to Tim in terms of practical leads on whether or not this mirror is responsible for what happened to him and Jason, let alone on the question of if finding the mirror will be enough to fix it…

 

            He doesn’t remember seeing a mirror the night before.

            Jason doesn’t either.

 

            And he’s officially run into all the dead ends it’s reasonable to explore with his interrogation of Ludwig Massimo.

 

            Jason sprays the thug in the face with a sedative and hooks him up to an IV to keep him sleeping and hydrated for the next few hours so they can go talk to Anna Dyer before they have to drop Massimo off with the police and a portfolio of more evidence to prove his involvement in the crimes he’s already walked away from jail for once today.

            With Massimo secured, Jason changes Tim’s body into his Red Robin gear (which does _not_ drive Tim into another panic, regardless of the tight feeling in his chest that lasts as long as Jason spends out of his direct sight line) and throws sweats over the ensemble to make it street viable – he’s got a hat and sunglasses to cover Tim’s face and they will _not_ be taking the BMW.

 

            Jason stuffs the red helmet that will make Tim’s current outfit a perfectly acceptable costume for Red Hood under his hoodie and then leads Tim out a that ridiculously well secured secret entrance and takes them back to street level – letting out discretely under the ramp of a parking garage’s first deck, where he’s got a beat up old bike stashed, a junkyard bike at best, albeit with a well-disguised but completely rebuilt and rather magnificent engine.

 

            Tim, in Jason’s body, takes the front, being that he knows exactly where they’re going.

 

            Having Jason, in Tim’s body, slip onto the bike behind him sends the odd sparks through his stomach that his long time crush on Jason has given him plenty of practice at ignoring.

            The late afternoon sun makes the quick ride across town feel dramatic, which Tim hopes can be taken to mean that they’re nearing the climax of this ridiculous adventure and they’ll be able to get themselves back to normal in time to take up their usual night time patrols.

 

            The logical side of him, the side that doesn’t give in to the keening drama of capes and action movie sunsets, is unfortunately certain that it isn’t going to be quite so easy…

 

 

________

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Timmy. Poor Jay. T^T
> 
> * Also, if any of Tim's thought processes seem familiar or okay to you, please talk to someone about how you're feeling right now. Coping with just being alive is difficult sometimes, but none of Tim's logic or reasoning is at all healthy, and if it seems appropriate or rational to you, this is the Universe saying you are worth so much more than you think and it's time to talk to someone about why you don't believe it.
> 
> NEXT TIME: things get complicated with fallout from the recognition that both Jay and Tim are human, but if Bats can do anything, they can compartmentalize the hell out of what they're feeling and focus on the Case.  
> _


	7. Dead Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's side of Tim's panic attack, and a few important steps towards making things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!!!
> 
> (And hopefully, with Manners finished up, I'll be able to focus more on getting this one and Red Rising written up and posted!)  
> _

 

** Chapter 7 – Dead Ends **

 

            Jason spots the instant Tim tips over into panic.

 

            Hasn’t the foggiest idea of what triggered it.

 

            Watches as Tim’s eyes grow huge, and as his pupils dilate to swallow up his focus and as the vicious _green_ flares up inside the slivers of his irises when the Pit begins to play.

 

            Feels the guilt claw though his organs like rusty old machetes as Tim begins to spiral away into the panic with absolutely no inkling of what’s happening or how to control it.

            It’s panic rather than rage, so it probably won’t turn destructive or dangerous like one of Jason’s episodes almost certainly would have, but still…

            Tim’s better than him, so much better… he should’ve been able to avoid this.

            Probably would’ve been able to recognize and handle it – to shut the chain reaction down completely before it managed to kick on the spiral – if Jason had just fucking _told_ him about it…

 

            But he didn’t.

 

            And now Tim has… Tim has to deal with the very worst of what self-doubt can do to a person over years of letting it fester, with centuries the Pit’s victims compounding into it, all compressed into one all-consuming attack that he had no reason to expect might be coming.

            Jason knows that Tim’s not got the greatest self-esteem – has _never_ understood why the little shithead doesn’t think he’s basically an epic earthbound god – but thinks that it won’t be impossible for Tim to recognize that, regardless of whatever specific doubt the Pit is playing with, the response he’s having to it is being blown way out of proper proportion…

            Tim might doubt himself a little, but only over stupid things, right?

            Things that he could work passed when he remembers that the Family _needs_ him… when he remembers that he’s the only reason the Bats are still a Family at all, and the only reason that WE is still standing, let alone serving as a global powerhouse company. Tim is seriously the only reason behind so many important aspects of how the current reality came to be way less shitty than in any other alternative version of the god damn universe…

            But as Jason stands frozen in his hallway, he watches Tim spiral… _hard_.

            He’s not getting out of this on his own.

            Jason thinks he may not yet have even recognized that it’s happening at all.

 

            Standing frozen, totally unable to feel any of his limbs, Jason wills Tim to somehow miraculously manage to pull himself out of the rut – Tim can do it, Jason _knows_ he can.

            But then a bubble of hysterical laughter gurgles up out of Tim’s restricted airways.

            It’s not a Joker laugh, _thank god_ , but it’s still mocking and derisive, and it means that Tim is caught in the Pit’s thrall, without a doubt. There’s no way he can break this on his own, not without having prior warning of the potential need for him to fight his way out.

            Jason still doesn’t have any feeling in his limbs, but somehow he makes it over to where Tim is sitting – trapped in the throes of a waking nightmare.

            One hand goes to the side of Tim’s face – fingers wrapped around his nape, thumb brushing gently at his temple, palm cupped over his cheek. The other goes to his shoulder – squeezing hard enough to bruise, hard enough to nearly tear the stitches in the skin below his fingertips… hard enough to feel solid against the haze of the Pit.

            “Tim? I need you to breathe for me, okay? Just breathe through it,” Jason tells him.

            The hand on Tim’s shoulder flits away briefly, goes to one of Tim’s balled fists. Jason lifts Tim’s hand and peals his fingers out of the fist. Places the flat of his palm against Jason’s own chest – fingertips brushing the pale skin around his collar bones. Sparking at the contact.

            It makes Tim shudder.

            He chokes on an attempted breath.

 

            But this is a ritual they know well, one that Bruce has drilled into all of them for years.

            They’ve all had panic attacks, all learned how to help each other through them.

 

            “Come on, baby bird,” Jason croons, hand back to squeezing Tim’s shoulder, “I know you can do this. Just breathe for me. We got all the time in the world to work it out, just breathe.”

            Jason keeps his own breathing regular.

            Wishes he could force his heartbeat to slow just as easily, hopes that Tim can’t feel the erratic pound of it too clearly – hopes he focuses on the rise and fall around his lungs.

            Like Jason knows he is, Tim proves strong enough to push the worst of the panic away. It seems like one hell of a fight, but he manages to regulate his breathing, and then slow it down.

            His heart rate is still too fast though, Jason can feel it beneath the hand that’s slid down to rest against Tim’s neck – thumb brushing lightly at his cheek now as his fingers put a gentle, reassuring pressure on his nape, drawing them close.

            Tim tries to pull away before he’s genuinely calm – after the panic has settled, but well before it’s truly dissipated. Jason’s muscles lock up to keep Tim firmly in place.

            As much as Jason wants it to be that easy, he knows this isn’t over yet.

            “Tim?”

            “I’m fine,” Tim promises. Sullen, aggravated. “Sorry.”

            He’s still riding high on emotion, even if he’s pretending otherwise – too high, on emotion that the Pit can use to make the spiral drag him right back down.

            Jason hesitates. Pulls a breath in and slowly lets it out.

            “You don’t have to apologize, Tim,” Jason tells him with a deep remorse that he takes pains to keep out of his tone, “Not to me, _never_ to me. If anything, I should apologize to you.”

            “Jason,” Tim sighs, sounding shockingly deflated and disheartened. Jason doesn’t understand why until Tim goes on, “You’ve never meant to hurt me.”

            Oh.

            He’s on about the _other_ reasons he has to feel like an absolute asshole for everything he’s ever done to Tim – the _big_ reasons.

            “Not that,” Jason says quickly, before Tim can get rolling on his usual argument. He hears what he said and course corrects, “I mean, _yes,_ that… but not for this. I should’ve warned you… It’s not always immediate, and it’s not always obvious or loud or clear… but that… extra kick behind your panic? That’s the Pit.”

            Tim frowns.

            He’s not explaining it right.

            Jason knows that words aren’t quite his thing, especially not words about feelings and shit… and this thing with the Pit is hard enough for him to get right in his own head.

            He has to do better.

            For Tim.

            He looks Tim straight in the eye, trying to figure out what to say – _how_ to say it…

            Notices the rapid twitching that means he’s thinking… _hard_.

            The flicker starts out normal, plain old regular Tim with his creepily hyperactive genius little brain, but then it stutters into something else… the thrum of vibration in his pupils blowing them wide and a glint of glimmering green rises back up as the Pit digs in again.

            Jason squeezes his shoulder again, giving it a firm shake that jars his stitches.

            Tim jerks back with a violent flinch as he gets yanked back to reality.

            Tim might think the panic attack is over, that the worst of the spiral has been halted, but Jason knows better – knows it all too well. This isn’t nearly over, not by a long shot.

            No matter how much either of them wants it to be.

            “ _That_ Tim. _That’s_ the Pit,” Jason reiterates, giving Tim another gentle but pointedly emphatic shake. “You can’t listen to it, even when it sounds like it’s nothing but the usual thoughts inside your own head. That’s the Pit and you can’t let it tell you what you’re thinking. Find the trigger point and move passed it. I know you can do it.”

            Tim frowns again.

            His eyes do that flicker thing again, but this time the pupils stay small and focused.

            The green haze of the Pit doesn’t gleam around the edges of the dark blue gaze.

            His thoughts stay clear. Analytical.

            The frown deepens, the eyes narrow, the analysis keeps clicking onward.

 

            Jason gives Tim’s shoulder another squeeze.

            “That’s it, Tim, just let it all go,” Jason tells him, feeling the ache of being pummeled with relief. Tim’s almost free of the spiral, he’s getting out and getting it all under control so much more quickly than Jason ever could drag himself out of a spiral that deep.

            “You’re doing great, baby bird.”

 

            Tim struggles for a moment more and then swallows.

            Calmly and quietly, Tim meets Jason’s gaze and says his name with obvious question.

 

            This time, Jason is the one who looks away.

            He doesn’t relinquish his hold on Tim’s shoulder or let Tim’s hand fall from his chest, but he tilts back to put some more space between them.

 

            “The Pit isn’t gone,” Jason admits without looking at Tim.

            If he looks back at Tim, even for a second, he’s gonna lose his nerve. And he can’t do that, he _can’t_ … Tim deserves better – _needs_ to know what’s what so he can deal with it properly.

            “The detox thing only kinda worked,” Jason explains shakily, “It’s still there, waiting for some negative emotional spike to latch onto. I thought you might be… okay. You’re logical, less emotion-based than I am, so I just thought… Sorry, I didn’t warn you.”

 

            “Jason,” Tim sighs. Heavy, significant… not _quite_ pity, but painfully close.

            Jason can’t look at Tim – feels his heavy stare too acutely to even sneak a glance.

            “Are you… are you _okay_?”

 

            Jason knows what he’s asking.

            If it were anyone else, or they were in even slightly different circumstances, Jason would jump straight to lying through his teeth. But that won’t help Tim manage the Pit’s influence for however long the two of them remain stuck in each other’s bodies like this and Tim doesn’t deserve to get blindsided again because Jason’s too proud to admit he’s not as nearly strong as he always pretends to be.

            “Nah, Timmers, I don’t really think I am,” Jason confesses roughly. “And sad as it is, you’ve gotta deal with that shit until we get this sorted out.”

 

            Tim’s got his _focused_ stare skimming over Jason and it makes the inside of his skin itch in a way he doesn’t like one bit.

            Clearing his throat again, Jason scrubs a hand over his face and makes a broad gesture towards the far end of the kitchen counter.

 

            “There’s a laptop over there hardwired into an internet connection tied to an empty apartment upstairs,” Jason explains, hurriedly working his way to his feet and shuffling backwards away from the kitchen area.

            Tim’s clearly a bit behind on following the non-sequitur, but Jason barrels onward, “You can use it to do whatever research you think is necessary while I go talk to Massimo.”

            Jason falters as he realizes what he just said, how that could be construed as meaning something about Tim being too weak to handle an interrogation after one measly panic attack, which is not at all what Jason wants to say – even if Tim _should_ try taking it easy, since the Pit’s spirals are in no way normal spurts of irrational panic.

            Stumbling over his words, Jason continues physically backpedaling as he simultaneously attempts to remove his foot from his mouth. “I mean, you can come… if you want… to ask your own questions, but uh, there’s an intercom wired into the cell that connects to the laptop in case you want to just… wait here. You can use the connection to let me know if you think of anything. And it might be best to take it easy after… yeah. And, um, there's a pack of cigs and a lighter in the drawer under the laptop… it'll uh… _help_ , kinda. So. Yeah…”

 

            With that glorious exit, Jason wheels around and flees.

 

            He can feel Tim’s stare on his back all the way to end of the hall where he disappears behind the door closing off Ludwig Massimo’s cell.

            Jason has to spend a full ten seconds just trying to _breathe_ before he can turn his attention to their guest – who’s already awake enough to be tense with dread and terror, even as he pretends to still be knocked out cold.

            When he gets himself back under control – which is easier than he’s used to because of how Tim’s body has never been in the Pit, but still harder than he thought it would be because of how high strung and _wired_ Tim’s body is, how it seems to be naturally prone to panic in a way Jason’s never was – he doesn’t immediately turn his attention to the prisoner playing possum.

            Instead, he open up the hidden cabinet again.

            This time, instead of pulling out restraints, he goes for one of the extra vocal modulators he keeps on hand here and takes his time securing it to his throat before he taps it on.

            Then he slings an arm around Ludwig Massimo’s shoulders – making the idiot jump half out of his skin in fright as his charade of still being knocked out immediately falls apart – and gives an excessively rough, but still falsely congenial shake and squeeze.

            “Oh, Viggy,” Jason sighs sarcastically with a dramatic bite behind the sound, “Viggy, Viggy, Viggy… What am I going to do with you?”

            Massimo remains silent, save for an incoherent squeak that Jason isn’t shy about insulting. “You seem nervous, Viggy, _afraid_ ,” Jason comments, “Now why could that be? What’s got you so worked up and scared of your ol’ friend Red Hood? Hm?”

            This time, Massimo controls himself better – the strong arm of the docks finally getting himself in check after Jason so generously gave him a picture of who he’s facing. Jason wants him putting up the front, wants him to try blocking Hood from the information Massimo thinks that he wants – because Jason doesn’t actually _know_ what he wants, and it’ll be much easier to figure out what he wants if he can watch Massimo attempt to steer him away from it.

            “See, you’ve been working with this Zagitova douchebag, transporting a whole bunch of old shit from the middle east and I wanna know what that asshat told you about what exactly you were moving for him,” Jason presses. As he talks, he releases Massimo’s shoulders and starts pacing around him with heavy steps around his captive. “About a certain, _special_ addition to the mess of moldy archaic junk you were hauling.”

            “I don’t know what was in the box,” Massimo promised immediately.

            Bingo.

            Jason audibly sucks in air, letting Massimo know exactly what he’s doing despite the blindness of the head bag. “You know what, Vigster? I don’t believe you,” Jason tells his idiot captive brightly, “I think you know exactly what was in it. I think Zagitova tried to handle it himself, and I think it was just too shiny and tempting to resist… I think you peeked.”

            With a vigorous shake of his head, Massimo replies, “Nuh-uh, client privilege. I never look at what’s in any of the crates, to ensure I can’t rat a client out to anyone. Works to benefit both sides in an exchange.”

            “You stole a crate of Uzies from me, Vig,” Jason reminded, with an aggressively sardonic twist to his chipper tone, “I think you peeked.”

            Massimo squirmed.

            He’d always been a pretty simple sucker to interrogate.

            Jason leans in to get all up in Massimo’s face, blowing a hot huff of irritation over him to let him know that Jason was right there, and whispers, “So. Vig. What was in the box?”

            “Nothin’,” Massimo replies, in a voice just short of a terrified squeal, “I didn’t see anything. It was just a box. I dunno why the frickin cad was so excited about it.”

            “Come on, Viggy, don’t lie to your old pal,” Jason cooed. “He must’a said _something_. I know you only got one head that works right and while I’m sure it’s not the upstairs one, you’ve gotta have a couple brain cells between your ears.”

            “He didn’t say _anything_ , I swear,” Massimo gives up, hearing the vicious edge behind Jason’s cooing tone that meant very clearly that Red Hood was losing his temper – a thing that usually indicated that some unfortunate idiot was about to lose an appendage or two. “He was just blathering on about some bitch, like the damn bastard thought he was gonna pretend to get some pussy for this shit. Fuckin’ faggot.”

            Jason’s fist connects with Massimo’s jaw before the echo of his words has died – hard and quick enough to make him bite his tongue and nearly take it clean off.

            “It’s not nice to use slurs, dumbass,” Jason says with a didactic lilt.

            Unfortunately, it seems like Massimo was telling the truth about the fact that he doesn’t know anything actually useful.

            Jason steps back and crosses his arms, considering his options.

 

            He really doesn’t have many.

 

            Before Jason can pin down any possible course for continued questioning, the intercom on the wall crackles to life.

            It scares the shit out of Massimo, and it even makes Jason jump slightly.

            He’d forgotten about Tim.

            Well, not _forgotten_ exactly, but he’d more or less dismissed the idea of Tim ever voluntarily talking to him again, especially in the immediate moment. If their positions had been reversed, Jason would’ve been a mix of too angry at having been blindsided and too embarrassed over his reaction in front of Tim to even dream of talking to him without a good chunk of time spacing off the contact.

            Unless he’d found something _hella_ important.

            “Red Robin to Red Hood. Your intercom is a fire hazard. Turn your com back on or I will not be held responsible for when your safe house is literally burned.”

            Snarky little shit.

            Still, it makes Jason almost smile and he taps on the com with half a chuckle slipping up his throat. “Embrace the danger, Red,” Jason returns, “Live a little.”

            It’s a relief that the banter comes so easy – that it’s not stilted or awkward because of what happened less than half an hour ago. It still could stumble that way, but if Tim’s contacting him, it’s likely that there’s a new lead to follow, so hopefully, they’ll both be able to focus on _that_.

            “I jump off buildings for kicks and sneak Batman decaf, I live plenty,” Tim shoots back, light and calm and teasing and focused. It almost makes Jason chuckle again. “You getting anywhere with our new friend?”

            “Oh, yeah, me and Viggy here are gettin’ _real_ close,” Jason growls, leaking a bit of his exasperation at having hit a wall. “Unfortunately, bugger’s got like two brain cells and nothin’ in between ‘em. Ran out of conversation before the salad course finished, so I’m looking to stuff the breadsticks in my pockets and get the hell out of this date while I can.”

            “Ask him about Anna first.”

            “Who?”

            “Anna Dyer, Director of Acquisitions for the Gotham Natural History Museum,” Tim elaborates. “Ask Massimo if Zagitova was especially proud of any unique items he’d managed to acquire for her. Evgeni Zagitova likes to flirt and Anna double majored in International Literature as well as Archeology and Museum Studies, she’ll like the stories attached to any special items and Zagitova will have been eager to provide.”

            “Will do,” Jason says, reaching up to tap off his com out of habit.

 

            Something makes him stop before he does it.

 

            It takes a second for him to realize that he heard Tim pull in a harsh breath as he signed off – a breath that Tim’s apparently still holding.

            It takes another second to figure out why.

            Tim opened this line of communication, intentionally and vocally electing to use the earbud com over the intercom… Jason’s not entirely sure _why_ he did it, but he did, which means that if Jason turns his com off again, he’s rejecting the connection…

            Which would be bad… probably _very_ bad.

 

            Jason forces his hand to drop and turns his attention back to Massimo.

 

            His questioning technique this time around is a bit rougher than the first set, being that Jason needs to coax Massimo’s underdeveloped brain to remember every last detail it possibly can, but it’s still mostly a conversation that lets the idiot trip himself up.

            It gets Tim what he needs: the name of the artefact that Evgeni Zagitova was so proud of acquiring for Ms. Anna Dyer.

 

            The Heka Ariset.

 

            A mirror so old that _Cleopatra_ revered its purported history. She kept it in a jewel encrusted gold and glass box. According to what Zagitova told Massimo, Cleopatra regaled guests at all her dinner parties about the ancient object’s magical history.

 

            Judging by the rapid sound of computer keys clacking away, Tim gets googling.

            Narrates under his breath as he goes.

 

            Jason learns about how Cleopatra’s attachment to the mirror was for more than its practical value – that there is historical evidence to support the idea of an actual, physical mirror existing some place in the hidden recesses of Egypt’s ancient empire.

            The it was a real object with the potential to be found.

            Anna Dyer is doing her currently on-going doctoral thesis on objects like the mirror, and the literal impact of such mystical objects on the practicalities of every day Egyptian life.

            It’s kinda cool to consider.

            But it means almost nothing in terms of giving Tim and Jason leads to follow.

            It’s still very unclear as to whether the mirror is the thing responsible for what happened to them, and it says nothing on the question of if finding the mirror will be enough to fix it…

 

            He doesn’t remember seeing a mirror the night before.

            Tim doesn’t either.

 

            And they’ve officially run dry on what it’s reasonable to explore with the interrogation of Ludwig Massimo. They’ve gotta find someone else to talk to, and Anna Dyer seems like the only plausible option to investigate.

 

            Jason sprays the thug in the face with a sedative and hooks him up to an IV to keep him sleeping and hydrated for the next few hours so they can go talk to Anna Dyer before they have to drop Massimo off with the police and a portfolio of more evidence to prove his involvement in the crimes he’s already walked away from jail for once today.

            With Massimo secured, Jason changes Tim’s body into his Red Robin gear (which does _not_ drive Tim into another panic, and Jason very carefully does _not_ notice how close a feat it is that Tim manages to keep his whirring thoughts tamped down so securely) and throws sweats over the ensemble to make it street viable – he’s got a hat and sunglasses to cover Tim’s face and they will _not_ be taking the BMW.

 

            Jason stuffs the red helmet that will make Tim’s current outfit a perfectly acceptable costume for Red Hood under his hoodie and then leads Tim out his ridiculously well secured secret entrance that takes them back to street level – letting out discretely under the ramp of a parking garage’s first deck, where he’s got a beat up old bike stashed just around a subtle curve of concrete, a junkyard bike at best, albeit with a well-disguised but completely rebuilt and, if Jason does say so himself, rather magnificent engine.

 

            Tim, in Jason’s body, takes the front, being that he knows exactly where they’re going.

 

            Besides, he’s currently the bigger body of the two and it just makes driving easier.

            Slipping onto the bike behind himself is an odd experience for Jason and it makes odd sparks flit through his stomach – though _Tim’s_ stomach.

            Jason isn’t quite sure what to make of that.

 

            Well, that’s not entirely true.

            He knows what the sensation _is_ , and he’s felt it often enough when Tim’s slipped onto a bike behind him and pulled himself close enough for Jason to feel the heat of his body along every inch of his back.

            He doesn’t have any _right_ to feel it, had thought he’d shut the idea down completely long ago – well after the rage had settled, had found its focus aimed firmly at Bruce and the fucking clown rather than on his replacement… around the time he’d started to be able to beat back the Pit’s lingering haze long enough to realize that any attraction he was feeling towards the new and improved ninja version of his god damn adorable baby seal was _unbelievably_ inappropriate.

 

            But…

 

            Jason had flirted with the chick in the coffee shop.

            He’d thought, consciously, that the girl was hot, but the body he was in hadn’t reacted at all to the fact that she’d flirted back – hadn’t reacted even when she’d brushed the underside of his wrist with very clear intent.

            And just sitting behind Jason’s body is making Tim’s… pay attention…

 

            Jason forces any thoughts of attempting to mentally work through what that might mean out of his head.

            Tim dated Steph for a good long while, and while Jason doesn’t know anything about what happened between them – frankly doesn’t _want_ to know – and while knows that Tim’s dating Steph, and even having sex with her, doesn’t necessarily mean Tim _doesn’t_ bat for the same team, it certainly doesn’t clearly indicate he _does_ …

            Besides, Jason’s not allowed to think about it, and he’s certainly not allowed to fucking _pursue_ it. So, there’s no point.

 

            The stupid swirl of thoughts he’s not allowed to have keeps Jason distracted long enough to make the trip across the city feel almost unbearably quick.

            He still feels unsettled as Tim tucks the bike into an alley and they disembark within the deepening shadows of early evening.

            Jason tries to chalk it up to the fact that it’s still _hella_ early for a Bat to be out, but even as he manages to put up the right wall to block out the thrum of anxiety, he knows that he’s just ignoring something that will probably come back to bite him.

            Regardless, having something to do that lets him focus on the _mission_ , instead of whatever else is going through his head, is helpful and he seizes fully on the opportunity. As he strips out of the sweats covering Tim’s Red Robin gear, Jason deftly kicks everything else aside.

            They’re in a camera blind spot at the edge of a loading dock. The dock is sunk into a squared off concrete U that accesses the first level of staff only basement areas at the Gotham Natural History Museum.

            Soon-to-be-‘Doctor’ Anna Dyer is a workaholic – obviously, since it’s not your average Joe Schmoe, even a _salaried_ Joe Schmoe, that would be willing to work with someone like Evgeni Zagitova to criminally enhance their otherwise totally above board work place, especially when there’s no real profit to be made directly from the criminal engagement. The doctor in progress has scheduled herself for several more hours of work on her museum-funded doctoral thesis despite the holiday weekend.

            With Tim’s domino mask secured on his face, and his helmet fit neatly into place over Tim’s head, Jason guards their backs as Tim sets to work disarming the door’s alarm and bypassing the almost genuinely impressive lock meant to keep out the plethora of well-funded criminals who aren’t quite at Catwoman’s caliber. There’s no way to keep her out of anywhere and most museums in Gotham have made their peace with that, but they _can_ do a damn good job of keeping almost everyone _else_ out and they’re determined to prove it.

            Bats withstanding, of course.

            Tim makes fairly quick work of the lock, considering, and even though he makes a few quiet comments cursing the odd difficulty of trying to use his usual tiny-ass Bat-hacker gear with Jason’s much larger fingertips, soon they’re slipping carefully through the eerie silence of an empty museum’s wide marble halls.

            Jason’s always liked empty museums.

            He’s rarely had the opportunity to explore them at leisure, but a few of the times he’d happenstantially ventured out of Crime Alley in search of a respite that no street kid could really hope to ask for found him wandering into a museum like this on a fortuitous Tuesday or somethin’ when the place was practically deserted.

            Sometimes there were school tours or shit, but he’d gotten pretty lucky when he came, because way more often than not the place was near deserted.

            He liked museums because he could learn about cool shit there, without a nosy librarian coming over with all that creepy grandmothery niceness – that Jason is still totally convinced is all bullshit and bluff – asking about what he’s doing and if he needs help with it or if he wants to take any of this home with him, because _he has a home, right?_ A ‘safe’ and ‘warm’ one so the ‘ _nice ladies_ ’ at child protective services don’t have to get involved…

            Jason shoves his thoughts off that rail – finds doing so blissfully easy to manage without having to fight the Pit’s influence to get the whispers down – and skims his gaze over the halls behind them to keep their backs well-guarded.

            There might not be any particular threat against them at the moment or in this location, but no matter where they are exactly this place is _still_ frickin’ _Gotham_.

            Tim knows exactly where he’s going, as usual, and Jason follows his confident strides without question. It’s harder to keep up than he’d thought it be – Tim’s legs are spindly and long compared to the rest of him, but he’s still pretty damn short compared to Jason.

            Jason will have to remember to watch that, to keep an eye on Tim and check his pace now and then, once they’re back inside their usual bodies. It’s a testament to Tim’s new found ninja skills that Jason’s never noticed the apparent effort it takes him to keep up before this.

            For now he just hurries his steps and keeps close enough to count as Tim leads them towards Anna Dyer’s office. Faced with a closed door, Tim shoots Jason a look – that he doesn’t quite realize can’t be seen beneath his helmet – and then gingerly raps twice on the solid wood.

            Tim is still clearly surprised at Jason’s strength. He nearly jumps at the harsh sound his supposed-to-be-gentle knocks create in the dead silent hallway.

            He has a moment to recover himself in the delay between his knocking and the moment Anna Dyer realizes that she should probably go see who’s out there.

            When Anna opens the door, pulling it open only by inches with a well-reasoned edge of caution, her gaze flits warily between Red Hood and Red Robin.

            With Hood in front, she directs most of her attention to Tim and asks, “Can I help you?”

            “We have a few questions, Ms. Dyer,” Tim explains, “Regarding some of the resource materials you’ve been acquiring for your on-going doctoral thesis.”

            Anna’s face is an open book.

            Her expression shifts from wariness to fear to something like excitement as Hood explains that they want to talk about her research.

            There’s still a cautious, guarded edge to her expression as she pulls the door open a bit wider – probably wary of what angle the capes are here to work.

            She’s at least moderately aware of how her acquisition methods have not been entirely above board, but she seems to believe enough in what she’s doing to suppose that while her methods are illegal, they aren’t definitively _wrong_.

            A bit like vigilantes in that way, a close enough comparison for her to feel a kinship with them rather than guilt or fear when asking, “What do you want to know?”

            “You’ve recently acquired an artifact,” Tim starts, trying to be gentle while edging into an accusation while being cautious of how any hint of aggression from the Red Hood could make her current willingness to cooperate with them instantly evaporate. “The Heka Ariset.”

            Anna shrinks slightly.

            “Look, I know it was probably illegal, but I really don’t know anything about how Evie got the mirror out of Egypt,” she said, jumping guiltily to explaining herself straight out.

            “Evie?”

            The question was Jason’s, drawing Anna’s attention to Red Robin as he steps up next to Red Hood with his eyes visibly narrowed behind the flexible white lenses of his domino.

            Evie was a rather overly familiar name for her to refer to a random black market antiquities dealer.

            “Evgeni Zagitova. He’s a friend of my mother’s,” Anna supplied with a shrug. “I’ve known him for two decades and he’s furnished like a dozen apartments for my family. He’s honestly one of the reasons I got so interested in Egyptology to start with.”

            Red Robin nods, accepting the answer – staying in character.

            Red Hood snorts. “You know that what he does is like fifteen kinds of illegal, right?”

            With another shrug, Anna explains, “I didn’t ask how he does it. I’ve never asked. Intentionally. I don’t really care, and I don’t wanna know.” She huffs and crosses her arms as she goes on, venting, “It’s just… It’s not even that those bastards in Cairo actually _want_ the mirror, they just don’t want anyone outside of Egypt to have it.”

            With a sigh that shows she’s pleading with them to understand her predicament, and her reasoning for going to the dark side to get out of it, she adds, “They won’t even put it on display or anything – you have to get approval from the government six months in advance if you want to see anything from the collection of Cleopatra’s possessions. Superstitious idiots.”

            “Superstitious?”

            Jason’s question is light – probably sounds a bit too blatant and undisguisedly hopeful to Tim’s ears, but Anna doesn’t have any chance of knowing the quirks of Tim’s natural voice box, let alone how the modifier taped to his trachea alters it, to hear much beyond the lack of a threatening growl.

            She nods.

            “There’s a story about how looking into the mirror will fracture a person’s soul,” Anna explains, her voice taking on a very different tone – one of fascination and intrigue. “If the five parts of the soul aren’t realigned properly before the sun sets on the fifth day after the fracturing, then the soul will be forever split, the human body will begin to die, and the individual affected will never be able to arise in the afterlife.”

            “Is there any particular _reason_ that the Cairo archaeologists believe the story is true enough to warrant the artifact being kept away from the public?” Tim asks with a sardonic twist edging into his dry tone.

            The distortion of the Hood makes it sound even more sarcastic.

            Dismissively amused rather than what Jason can guess is actually closer to exasperation.

            It makes Anna smile.

            She tips her head side to side in a reluctantly amenable gesture.

            “There was _one_ guy who fell into a coma shortly after looking into the mirror,” she admits slowly, “He was on the team that found it. His coma probably has much more to do with the fact that he was using a lead based polish to clean it than any ancient curse, but try telling local goat herds that much… it’s honestly _worse_ than those ridiculous nineteenth century British idiots trying to deal with the results of mold spores before anyone thought to take a proper microscope to the damn stuff.”

            She huffs and Tim lets the conversation lapse for a moment.

            Probably thinking over the plausibility of the details they’ve collected of the mirror’s story. It doesn’t seem like it fits the issue they’re facing – their souls don’t _seem_ fractured… and Anna’s account of the legend doesn’t mention a consciousness swap… but it’s still the only lead they have on a mystical object that could explain their situation.

            And if it IS due to the Heka Ariset… they’ve got five days to fix things… or maybe four, depending on how mystical mirrors count the days… Anna said ‘sunsets’, specifically, so Jason’s hopeful that it means the modern technicality of calendar date is irrelevant.

            If it is, then tonight is their first sunset and they’ve got four more to fix things.

            It it’s not… then… tonight is probably their second night – even if they didn’t swap until this after 6am morning, it’s likely that they encountered the trigger before midnight last night.

            Yeah.

            Jason’s really banking on the hope that the sunset thing is important.

            Tim probably is too, but he refocuses on getting answers as quickly as possible – just in case they’re already down by almost two full days.

            They’re not even entirely certain this mirror is the answer to their question yet.

            “Tell us more about the mirror’s legend,” Red Hood says – his tone halfway between demand and suggestion in a way that clearly makes Anna think he’s truly interested in the research rather than her involvement in minor criminal activities. “You said the Heka Ariset splits a person’s soul into five pieces?”

            “Yes. It’s part of a fundamental concept within Egyptian religious ideology,” Anna explains, a slow smile growing. “Actually… if you’re really interested, it might be easier and more effective to _show_ you.”

            Tim gives a nod and steps aside to allow Anna to step through the doorway as Jason mirrors the action. Tim barely seems to notice as Anna gives his elbow a gentle touch as she passes and gives a flirty smile, saying, “Follow me.”

            Jason notices it, though, more than acutely enough to make it distracting as they begin to follow her down the empty, darkened halls of the off hours museum.

            Anna is proactively flirting with the Red Hood now, letting her hips sway alluringly with each carefully confident stride she takes in her power pump high heels as Tim sticks close.

            Following from a few strides further back, Jason examines Tim’s posture.

            He’s focused.

            Hyper focused.

            But it’s his usual kind of internalized, meditational, problem solving focused – and not at all the externalized, interested, _there’s a hot chick showing off her ass for me_ kind of focused that most guys would fall victim to in this situation.

            Tim likely hasn’t even noticed that Anna is actually a pretty damn fine and fuckable piece of tail – he _definitely_ hasn’t noticed how Anna keeps using the reflections in the display cases they’re passing to check on whether or not Tim’s paying attention.

            Knowing Tim well enough to read his posture better than Anna ever could, and knowing how his Hood operates to aim his gaze, Jason can tell easily that Tim isn’t lending even a scrap of his attention the sexy docent in front of him – but from the way Anna bites her lower lip as she swings her hips around to lead them into the Egyptian Hall of Marvels, she thinks Tim’s gaze is glued to her ass.

            Jason bites back a laugh.

            As much as he hopes that this little endeavor will give them legitimate answers and a direct means of making things go back to normal, he’s also kinda hoping they don’t get those answers _too_ immediately.

 

            Because this is gonna be frickin’ _hilarious_.

 

            Tim isn’t gonna have any _idea_ what’s hit him.

 

            Oblivious frickin floppy ass seal… he might’ve grown up to be a ninja or some shit, but the dude is still a dumbass floundering around without feet.

 

            As Anna turns around and gives a bright smile as she gestures at a wall of hieroglyphics, Jason fights to keep his own grin under control and settles in to watch the train wreck.

 

 

________

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I'm dressing up as Spoiler when I go into work today. XP
> 
> Again, Happy Halloween folks!
> 
> NEXT TIME: Tim makes a few crucial connections in figuring out how to get things back to normal.


	8. Discernible Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's inquiries result in some legitimate strides towards understanding what the hell is going on with him and Jason at the moment...
> 
> But with the Bat Clan... progress is never so simple. At best, it's three steps forward and two steps back...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! (The sentiment serves for Chuseok, Diwali, etc, so really more happy harvest festival? Today just happens to the one recognized officially by the American Government...)
> 
> Even if being with Family is tense / uncomfortable / outright distressing, this is a holiday when it's important to recognize the kind of bonds you have that are more permanent and more affecting than simple like or dislike. I, for one, feel an awful lot like Jason heading out to brunch with the Fam at a WE event... but I love my family slightly more than I dislike uncomfortable situations, so brunch it is...
> 
> And if you're one of the lucky ones with an awesome family (pardon my French): CHERISH THE /FUCK/ OUT OF THAT SHIT.
> 
> SO. Happy Thanksgiving!
> 
> And on to angsty, oblivious Timbo!  
> _

**Chapter 8 – Discernible Progress**

 

            “If you’re really interested, it might be easier and more effective to _show_ you.”

            Tim gives a nod and steps aside to allow Anna to step through the doorway as Jason mirrors the action.

            He gives another nod as Anna begins to lead them down the hall, saying, “Follow me.”

            The walk is brief and quiet, save for the pound of Anna’s footsteps in her high heels.

            She guides them over to a stone façade built up against the museum’s drywall. The stone work is covered in the brightly painted figures of hieroglyphics. Tim’s linguistic studies have given him the barest background in deciphering the texts – frankly, all he can really do is recognize and pronounce a few names encased in the easily identifiable structure of a cartouche.

            Fortunately, Anna assumes they are totally ignorant without them having to say and she jumps right into explaining, “The Ancient Egyptians believed firmly in the idea that the human soul is comprised of multiple facets. Depending on who you’re talking to, and _when_ you’re talking about, there are anywhere from five parts to nine parts.”

            Tim nods, laying the information out on the metaphorical sorting table of his mind.

            Anna directs his attention to the first panel, saying, “There’s the _Khat_ , or the physical body as it is in Life, scars and all. And there’s the _Sahu,_ or the _spiritual_ body – the _essence_ of the physical form, but without the scars or sun spots or otherwise life-inflicted alterations. There’s also the _Sheut,_ or the shadow. It’s the approximate inverse of the _Sahu_ , being almost exclusively a form made up of the life-inflicted alterations to the physical form – everything from sunburn and bruises to battle scars and organ transplants. All three grow throughout the person’s life and are _attached_ to the soul, but experts are divided over whether they count as _part_ of the soul.”

            As Tim gives another nod, Anna directs him to another panel. “Then there’s the _Jb_ , or the heart. The Ancient Egyptians make absolutely no distinction between the physical heart organ and the heart as the seat of human emotion, will, and intention. And the _Ka_ , or the vital spark… it’s a solid concept for the difference between alive and dead, and it’s also used in reference to the intangible wall between the division of body and spirit.”

            At this point, Tim notices Anna’s hand on his elbow as it squeezes hard enough to register the sensation despite the thick leather of Jason’s jacket. Tim resists the urge to yank his arm away as Anna uses her hold to guide him to another panel of hieroglyphics.

            “Then there was the _Khu_ and the _Sekhem_ , essentially a person’s higher intelligence and base survival instincts or the will to live,” Anna tells them, continuing, “They are united by the _Ren,_ or the individual’s personal, given name. It’s their identity, their experiences, their memory in the space they leave behind – essentially, it’s the outline of a person’s inner personality as seen and rendered by their existence and its impact on others, as caused by the _Bâ_ , or the self-created personality.”

            Anna steers him over to the wall’s final panel saying, “It’s largely accepted that the _Ka_ and the _Bâ_ are the most important parts of the Egyptian soul. They separate at the moment of death and dissipate into the ether with the other aspects until the funeral ceremonies awaken the inner being for judgement before Anubis. After the weighing of the heart, if a person is deemed worthy of entering the Afterlife, then the _Ka_ and the _Bâ_ reunite as the _Akh_ , which is the entity most familiar to us, as it is almost identical to the modern concept of a ghost.”

            Nodding again as he sorts through all of the information, as he carefully evaluated what fit with his current understanding of their problem and what didn’t, Tim picks the most prominent question out of the nebulous ether and asks, “How do all those parts of the Egyptian soul interact with the legends around Cleopatra’s mirror?”

            “The Heka Ariset supposedly splits the soul like a prism splits light, with the material the light is passing through absorbing some of the wavelengths,” Anna explains. “The _Sahu_ and the _Sheut_ and a portion of the _Ka_ remain trapped inside the mirror. The _Bâ_ is loosed to the ether and binds itself to the _Ren_ , while the _Sekhem_ and the _Khu_ fold up into the _Jb,_ which gets slowly suppressed and pushed outside of the plain of existence without the other aspects to hold it steady inside the _Khat_ … which begins to die as the other parts of the soul dissipate.”

            “And that process takes five days?” Tim asks.

            When Anna nods, he adds, “Do the legends say what triggers it? The mirror’s magic can’t possibly be activated simply by looking into it, or it would never have become a collector’s item for Cleopatra – assuming the Ptolemaic Queen still believed enough in the religion of the Old Kingdom to think the magics would still work.”

            Anna gives him a sly smile, clearly pleased with his knowledge of the basic Egyptian timeline. “Cleopatra _did_ believe in it,” she explains, “Very much so. Even by the turn of the New Kingdom, the legends became very specific about a ‘disquiet’ soul being the trigger to activate its magics. In a person where the _Bâ, Ka_ , and _Jb_ are already held at odds, there’s enough potential energy to interact with the mirror’s effects – the more disquiet, the more energy, and the broader an area of an effect field.”

            “So there’s no discrimination, no way of conscious control… no means of _aiming_ , if you will,” Tim presses, his attention pulling inward as the new variable came into play.

            “None at all,” Anna explains, elaborating, “Cleopatra kept it in her private chamber, partly to proclaim how set on her course and whole as a person she was, and partly as insurance against the treachery of false friends and the like.”

            Tim _hmmed_ a response, his attention turned almost entirely inwards.

            Anna noticed.

            She kept hold of Tim’s elbow but swung around to face him, placing a flat hand on the plane of his chest – a sensation that felt unnerving without the shield of body armor covering his entire torso with the protective comfort of Kevlar.

            “So, why’s the big bad Red Hood suddenly so interested in Egyptian mythology?”

            Tim barely keeps Jason’s body from backing away – Anna is _much_ closer than she needs to be and while Tim’s not terribly comfortable with it, Jason’s body is vehemently protesting.

            She has only managed to get so close because nothing in her body langue indicates any kind of threat – or even the ability to _become_ a threat – but it’s still off putting to suddenly notice her acute proximity.

            And it’s making Jason’s stomach clench… a reaction that probably isn’t entirely resultant from Tim’s own mental anxiety.

            He’s felt this sensation before – this two edged stab of hormonal interest and fervent queasiness… Tim’s most familiar with it from the time right after he and Steph broke up and were still too raw to make a real try at the being siblings thing – when they were too tangled up in their emotions and each other to even try being friends.

            It’s a strange balance… a precarious unsettlement rocking between sexual attraction, hormonal disgust, and emotional distress.

            And Tim understands exactly why he felt it around Steph for so long, but he hasn’t the foggiest idea of why Jason’s stomach is doing the very same grinding flips… except for one hypothesis, maybe…

            Because maybe this is a symptom of their swapped consciousnesses.

            They haven’t felt something like this before yet, or at least, Tim hasn’t. Jason might’ve, but if he did, he didn’t tell Tim. But for Tim, he knows he hasn’t felt the dysphoria of a split because there hasn’t been a moment when body and mind disagreed so dramatically before.

            Tim has zero interest in Ms Anna Dyer.

            He’s been attracted to girls before, but Steph and Barbara are different.

            They’re _Batgirls_. Kick ass in a way that makes them stupidly attractive beyond sense.

            Diana Prince falls into a painfully similar category, and Donna Troy, both fortunately older enough to be definitively out of the range for Tim’s practical consideration (though Tim is not above admitting he may have taken a bit of vicarious pleasure in watching Dick and Donna flirt for a while, without the pressure of a genuine _relationship_ behind it).

            Hell, his own team of Titans has a roster of girls who could probably level cities if they put their minds to it properly. Everyone’s habit of light flirting with Cassie comes to mind…

            Even Tam Fox has a sort of hell cat vibe that can make grown men in charge of Fortune 100 companies quake in their designer shoes like school boys in detention.

 

            Anna Dyer is not that kind of cool.

 

            She _is_ visually appealing, though, sort of… Not Tim’s type exactly, but maybe Jason’s?

            Would that explain the relevant body’s physiological reaction?

            Maybe, the opposition of body and mind probably _could_ do it… but it seems like Jason’s body on its own – leaving Tim’s brain out of the equation altogether – is caught between a mixed reaction of interest and repulsion… there definitely a swirl of something in his gut, and an interested twitch of perking up below the belt, but there’s also a mild bite of … _bile_ or something hot and vile in the back of his throat… so Tim doesn’t understand.

            He darts a glance at Jason – using the reflection in the glass of a nearby display case to check his own body’s expression. Under Jason’s control, Tim’s face is too blank to make any definitive sense of what he’s thinking, especially beneath Red Robin’s full cowl, but there’s a slant to his not-quite-smile that might indicate a degree of amusement…

            So, Jason probably knows what’s happening, knows what Tim is currently feeling, and he’s laughing at Tim’s resulting discomfort. Obviously.

            Because that would just be such a Jason thing to do. _Asshole_.

            Tim’s stare goes flat, and he doesn’t hold back from rolling his eyes in exasperation behind the shielding of Jason’s Hood.

            The Hood is pretty cool like that, Tim can admit… It lets him express and process his emotional reactions while simultaneously concealing the entire occurrence from view.

            It’s nice, even if it means he can’t quite interact with victims in the way that Robin is expected to… Jason _isn’t_ Robin anymore, and with the lingering influence of the Lazarus Pit surely sending waves of unexpected and unwarranted emotional turmoil through him… being able to hide all of that and just brush it away has _got_ to be helpful.

 

            Anyway… Tim getting so broadly side tracked is not helping anyone.

 

            Anna Dyer is still too close and Red Hood still hasn’t answered her question.

            “We’re interested in Egyptian mythology because of the mirror itself,” Tim explains, attempting to take a step away. Anna simply steps with him as he goes on to ask, “Evgeni Zagitova did not successfully make his delivery last night, did he?”

            Anna blinks and frowns, and after a moment, she shakes her head.

            “We’re concerned that a darker criminal enterprise than his has heard the stories and obtained the mirror for purposes of nefarious intent,” Tim lies easily, seeing as accusing Anna of being one of the criminals will not be conducive to utilizing her knowledge in order to fix the current problem he and Jason are facing.

            Anna’s eyes go wide and she pulls herself slightly closer, her fingertips sliding around to find a hold on the inside of Jason’s elbow.

            “It’s just a story, though,” Anna comments.

            “We’re thinking that it may _not_ be just a story,” Tim comments, adding, “There have already been victims, though we have sequestered them out of the way from any further harm.”

            With a silent nod, Anna dissects the information – brain processing the information better and faster than the average civilian, but still nowhere _near_ quickly enough to actually impress Tim on any level. He reflects again on how it’s _very_ nice to hide his blip of boredom behind Jason’s Hood while he waits for Anna to connect the important dots.

            “But not even the stories suggest that the mirror could be intentionally utilized like any kind of active weapon,” Anna mentions, at last reaching the right conclusion to ask the most important question. “Why would a villain want it?”

            “We don’t know,” Tim says, continuing to spin his little fiction. “But it is a comfort to know that it can’t be actively used as a weapon. Hopefully, there won’t be too many more victims before we can recover the mirror. However, we will still have to deal with the victims that have already been subjected to the Heka Ariset’s unique effects. Is there any way mentioned in the legends to ‘cure’ the soul splitting condition before the whole _coma leading to death_ thing?”

            Anna is sufficiently distracted by considering his question for Tim to slip back a step without allowing her to immediately follow. He steps far enough to make her hold on his arm less than perfectly comfortable – but with her attention focused inward, she doesn’t consciously recognize the moment her hand slips entirely free and moves to rake through her long hair.

            With his arm freed, Tim takes another step back – towards Jason, who he can feel staring directly at the back of his head. If they were alone, he’d probably be cackling right now; hacking up a lung and rolling on the floor in his amusement at this apparent hilarity. _Har, har._

            “Assuming the legends pan out like they do in the stories,” Anna murmurs, turning back to skim a glance over the wall of hieroglyphics explaining the parts of the Egyptian soul.

            “What needs to happen to repair the damage is that the different aspects of the soul need to be reconciled, their varied innate goals must be achieved in a way that allows the innermost desires of the united soul to be acknowledged, expressed, and accomplished…”

            She trails off and flicks her gaze back towards the vigilantes waiting patiently to hear her conclusion. They _need_ her to give them a hint, after all, _some_ indication of the proper direction to walk in towards finding the solution, and it seems that she’s aware of what they want from her without having to explicitly spell it out.

            With a sigh and a slight frown, Anna continues, “The closest thing I can think of to compare it to in modern lore would be a ghost with ‘unfinished business’ being held back from crossing over. What you would need to do in order to help the victims of the Heka Ariset, essentially, would probably be similar to what needs to happen to deal with a modern ghost’s unfinished business and cross them over – but instead of heading into the light, they’d head back into their still quasi-living bodies.”

            Tim nods.

            Anna looks like she’s still thinking, so he restrains from speaking immediately.

            “You would need to have some way to ensure that all the parts of the soul are at least in a reasonable proximity of physical space,” Anna cautions. “If the mirror really worked, it’s likely that the _Akh_ has united outside of the _Khat_ already, so you need to make sure that body and mind are in the same room, but the mirror itself has theoretically trapped at least a part of the soul inside it, so you’ll need to recover the Heka Ariset as well. Do you know what villain has it?”

            Tim gives another nod.

            “We have means of liberating it already being planned,” Tim assures her. “ _Carefully_ planned, as I am assuming that it can affect _anyone_ who comes within its field of effect?”

            “Yes. And people with deep secrets and double lives are likely extremely susceptible to the influence,” Anna cautions, shifting slightly closer to Red Hood with concern – though her gaze has gone back to being significantly warmer than a gentle concern and the heated interest in her eyes makes Jason’s stomach do another flip.

            Tim, now actually paying attention, manages to step back before Anna gets another hand in physical contact with any part of him.

            It was, admittedly, a closer call than Tim would’ve preferred.

            He can _feel_ Jason mocking him behind Red Robin’s cowl.

            Still, he eluded capture and his brain is already fixated on planning their next steps.

            The Heka Ariset is a plausible lead, with a reasonable story and enough respected lore behind it to give credence to the _myth_ _made_ _real_ hypothesis. They are gonna chase this lead down ASAP and they are gonna run it _hard_.

            Neither he nor Jason are much for waiting around and now that they have a direction to search in that doesn’t scream ‘dead end’… they aren’t gonna pause for anything.

            Their exit is swift and their farewells rather cursory, dismissive.

            It would probably bother Tim more if Jason weren’t swinging at his side with a clearly amused smirk spread plain across his face as they make their way towards the GCPD evidence locker – where the crate with the Heka Ariset inside is currently hiding.

            Tim choses to focus on their heist rather than on whatever silent mockery within his thoughts have made Jason so amused with Tim’s struggles… He’s just not mentally built to combat the more than friendly overtures of a flirtatious Egyptologist. _Whatever_.

            He _is_ built for sneaking into places he is technically not allowed to visit.

            Breaking into the GCPD Evidence warehouse isn’t even a pretense of challenging.

            With Oracle being the main security system backing GCPD’s alarms, the Bats basically have a key to their own private front door (or rather, a welcoming back window in a seldom used storage room with big enough access points to get a car in and out unnoticed, if necessary).

            They pause long enough to check the GCPD records to ensure that none of the officers involved with the collection of the evidence crates have reported any strange sensations, that none of them have even called out of their shifts or even just failed to show up or anything. With the officers confirmed as unaffected, the vigilantes move quickly to identifying the correct box.

            It’s not a big one, but it’s double crated and very well cushioned.

            The outer crate is too unwieldly to fit back through the window and then be carried home across the Gotham skyline, but the inner one is just small enough to be hefted between them without causing significant obstruction to their aerial progress.

            With a careful sling assembled out of nets from Red Robin’s utility belt, Tim and Jason can carry the thing between them as they swing back to the Basement safe house. It takes careful coordination to manage the feat, but Tim’s spent years watching Jason move – and he knows how his own body moves, and can guess easily how Jason’s style would adapt that movement.

            And Jason’s paid enough attention to him over the last few years to know his own quirks pretty well – granted, most of that attention was definitely ‘how to kill’ recon, but still.

            It’s useful.

            They work well together – surprisingly well… less surprising because of how they’ve already managed it a few times now on joint cases, but still… Tim definitely jumped into fight mode when he first needed to meet up with Jason for this case and Hood’s reaction to his sudden appearance in the living room of his safe house was a cocked Glock aimed at his knee… it _was_ his knee, and not his head, though, so that was good… and now they’re no more awkward with each other in a body swap than they would be on any other, _normal,_ case.

 

            So, Tim’s ready to call that a win.

 

            They’ve almost made it back to the Basement when something crackles inside the Hood – the tell-tale sound of someone patching into the data connections contained by the Hood’s complex circuitry… of someone establishing a direct line into his ear.

            “God _damn_ it, Hood,” Barbara’s voice snaps, still rather obscured by static. “When I said your tech was almost impressive enough to keep me out, I did _not_ mean for you to take it as a challenge. Does this helmet even _have_ GPS? I thought we talked about this: it’s not surveillance, it’s just a safety precaution. I mean _really_ , blatant stalkery is just how us Bats show we care.”

            Babs seems perfectly content to go on with her rant without any feedback from Tim – which is fortunate, because he’s barely managed to maintain his hold on his grapple gun, let alone on the sling containing the crate with the priceless magical mirror that’s apparently crucial to ensuring that he and Jason get back in their own bodies sans coma leading to death.

            Jason notices his near fumble and gestures that they should cut their lines and drop to street level – they’re only a few blocks away, after all. He seems to guess pretty quickly that the reason behind Tim’s sudden unsteadiness is Babs’ voice popping up inside his ears and he doesn’t make a sound as he signals for them to just walk the rest of the way.

            With an agreeing nod, Tim keeps silent himself.

            They make it half a block before Barbara comments on the fact that she already knows something is wrong. “Hood? Are you okay?”

            Tim hesitates half a second, but steels himself and snarks in as close an imitation to vaguely irritated Jason as he can manage, “Lay off it, O, I’m _fine._ ”

            There’s a beat of disbelief.

            With an edge in it that Tim doesn’t quite understand.

            “Is Red Robin with you, at least?”

            The edge in her voice is sharper than the one in her silence.

            “Yeah, he’s here,” Tim admits, forcing himself to add, “Haven’t killed him yet, if that’s what you’re worried about – just a gentle maiming. Between brothers, you know.”

            “Hood,” Barbara sighs with admonishment, and some very real relief in the space around her word. “He went dark, canceled all of his appointments… he even missed _game night_.”

            “I thought he called out sick of that shit,” Tim retorts, annoyed that all the effort he’d put into making his excuses feel legitimate apparently amounted to very little.

            _What is the point_ of calling out sick, if no one ever believed him enough to just leave him alone like he very specifically asked them to?

            “Red has walked into work at six in the morning, riding a fifty hour sleep deficit with a 104 degree fever and two broken ribs, to face down a Chinese board of directors that made _Batman_ need to bribe the Fox into making a tag-team event out of it when _he_ had to meet them four years ago, and they’ve only gotten meaner since,” Barbara snaps.

            “He was _fine_ ,” Tim snipes back. “And he made the deal.”

            There’s another beat of silence – this one distinctly… _surprised_.

 

            Oh, _frack_.

 

            Had he ever told Jason any of that? Would Jason have stalked him enough to know it without being told about it directly? At the very least, Option B seems more plausible…

            “What? You didn’t think I was keepin’ tabs on our little Baby Bird? Gimme a break,” Tim huffed in Jason-mode, trying not to look at the man he was pretending to be as he could feel the weight of Jason’s glare boring into his shoulder.

            “I’m just surprised that you would admit to it,” Babs replies.

            “Well, since stalking is apparently caring for the Bats…”

            Another pause.

            Tim’s Jason act is clearly not as convincing as he’d hoped it would be.

            “Be real with me, Hood, for just a few seconds,” Barbara pleads – genuine begging in her tone. “Red’s there, right? And he’s really okay?”

            “He’s _fine_ – well,” Tim hesitates.

            He’s not fine. He’s stuck in the wrong body. But he’s _unharmed_ … and lying to Barbara never worked out well in the end – even if Tim was the one person on earth who could get a lie straight passed her bullshit meter.

            “He’s not hurt, but he’s not ready to leave my safe house, just yet,” Tim explains, “He’s gonna need another sick day.”

            “What’s wrong?”

            “The case we’re working… got a little complicated,” Tim admits.

            Barbara sighs again.

            “Can we help?”

            The defensive growl that claws up Tim’s throat is all him – no Jason act required. There _is_ a bite behind it that Tim doesn’t quite _mean_ to put there… but the Pit, if that's what is causing it, is only pushing on his genuine feelings rather than slipping its own array into his head.

            “We’re _fine_.”

            This time the pause is confusing, a sort of halting… _hesitation_.

            Whatever it is, it’s _very_ unlike Barbara.

            “We _want_ to trust you, Hood, to _help_ you,” Barbara starts, her voice quiet and heavy with an unexpected seriousness, “We are all _so_ glad you’ve come back to the Family… But this is very unlike Red. We’re concerned. I can keep B at bay for another day, but ‘Wing’s gonna be seriously bugging out in about twelve hours. Batgirl is already antsy, she’s trying to be respectful of Red, but she needs something from him… _tonight_.”

            “Blondie’s a big girl, O, she can deal,” Tim returns as they step up to the edge of Jason’s safe house. “Look, I gotta go. Case stuff. Nice chattin’, though.”

            Tim taps off the com in Jason’s Hood before Barbara can reply and looks over to his own face to ask, “You’ve got like super duty signal blockers in there, right?”

            As Tim offers Jason his own hand for the biorecognition locks that secure his door, Jason snorts and snipes, “Can’t believe you’d doubt me on that shit, Red. I hid from Batman for six months, remember… I hid from _you_. All while actively being hunted after making a massive ass outta myself. Oracle’s an all-knowing bitch of a nanny-goat, but there are some things you just can’t hack – even her. Couple feet a’ lead is one of ‘em.”

            It makes Tim feel better about slipping inside.

            He’s hidden from Oracle himself before, but only briefly – usually because he was doing something she considered ill-advised and overly risky – so it’s kind of a relief to remember that Jason’s managed it better than anyone else alive.

            It hurts to remember that too, hurts somewhere deep down in the back of his mind, but right now it’s helpful and he proactively chooses to focus on _that_ side of it.

 

            He and Jason make their way to the inner sanctum and the tension slowly filters out of Jason’s frame in a physical, draining, wash. They get settled into the area that counts as Jason’s living room with the box containing the Heka Ariset gingerly perched on a coffee table that looks like it’s been through a few wars under Jason’s boots.

            Jason peels out of the Red Robin armor, but leaves the body suit under it all in place and makes no move to go change out into something more casual.

            The observation fills Tim with a brief, but powerful, wave of relief.

            Tim sets the Hood on the kitchen counter and shrugs out of Jason’s leather jacket.

            Both of them circle the crate on the coffee table with a sort of hesitation that is not purely wariness of its potentially magical properties. Part of it is that neither of them have any real idea of what to do with it now that they have it laid out in front of them.

            Tim is the one that eventually takes the initiative to unpack the crate – gingerly pulling out the bejeweled glass box inside it and laying it across the coffee table with care. The mirror is deceptively simple – its shape visible through the glasswork, despite the fogginess of antiquity.

            “I don’t think this box is Egyptian,” Tim comments, aloud, but absently as his brain ticks through the possibilities. “Probably a Victorian repackaging of some sort, though… Anna said it hasn’t left Egypt before now… Maybe it was _found_ , though, and repackaged with intent to be shipped out to the British Museum. But before it left the country…”

            With a nod that Tim catches in his periphery, Jason adds, “the British explorers succumbed to the ‘Curse’, and the locals made sure it got left off the shipping list, buried it all over again. First with dirt and then with red tape.”

            Tim gave his own nod. “Plausible.”

            Then he gingerly lifts the lid and peers cautiously into the mirror.

            He blinks at what he sees: his own face – his own _real_ face, not the face of the body he’s currently wearing – staring back at him in the hazy surface of the ancient polished copper.

 

            “Whelp, we can be sure that it’s the right mirror,” Tim sighs.

 

            He feels Jason frown at his shoulder, deeply suspicious of Tim’s immediate confidence in what seems like an irrational assertion. Tim doesn’t blame him, fake antiquities is a booming, billion dollar business and sometime the fakes are more believable than the genuine article.

            “How’s that?” Jason asks, stepping closer with his arms crossed over his chest.

            “Take a look,” Tim suggests, moving to one side.

            Jason, in Tim’s slight figure, slips forward to peer into the mirror himself.

            “Well, hot damn.”

            Tim murmurs an agreement, though a strange chunk of his attention has caught on how easily his body slid into the bubble of personal space around Jason’s body. They’re currently standing closer together than Tim’s ever seen Jason stand next to anyone – barring exceptional circumstances, such as injury or conflict or some other immediate intervention that clearly excuses direct bodily contact.

            Otherwise, Jason’s bubble is a god damn _wall_ – not even Batman can come close to sneaking up on him anymore. Jason can tell when the Demon Spawn so much as enters the room, something even Tim’s still working on. Tim can’t officially confirm that Jason’s skin prickles when someone gets too close to the bubble’s boundary, but having spent most of the last few years stalking him with the intent to get him to reintegrate into the Bat Clan… Tim’s observed how Jason will tense and shudder when people get close.

            And he doesn’t feel any of the queasiness he felt when Anna got too close – though admittedly, her intentions were very different and painfully obvious in a way that would’ve made Tim feel queasy even in his own body… but still. That his frame gets no kind of defensive reaction from Jason’s instincts is… odd.

            It’s a bewildering observation to note that Jason’s muscles seem no more tense than they’ve been all day – still not quite _relaxed_ , but more so than when they were still in the apartment upstairs and just waking up to find themselves swapped.

            Now that Tim’s noticed their proximity, there’s a thrum of nervous energy that zings through all of Jason’s muscles, the kind of thing that he could quickly go crazy with trying to analyze if he’s given the chance to sink into the spiral of sensations and half-thoughts, but he’s not given even another ten seconds to examine the wash of feeling.

            Jason draws Tim’s thoughts back to their intended track, saying, “Soooooo, now what?”

            With a huff to refocus, Tim says, “Well, Anna said that being in the presence of the mirror should be enough to trigger the reset… so long as the souls were repaired enough to want to go back. That whole ‘unfinished business’ deal. You have anything unfinished?”

            Jason rocks back on Tim’s heels, gaze still locked on his reflection in the Heka Ariset.

            “The only thing that’s coming to mind is the fact that we’ve still got our good pal Viggy trussed up in my lock room,” Jason settles on explaining.

            Tim nods. “Other than that, I’ve got a few casefiles still in progress and a project or two at WE, but that’s not unfinished business exactly. Those deadlines are still impending, and that’s just how life _is_ these days,” Tim mentions, adding, “Besides, if that was what this mirror is counting as ‘unfinished business’ then every single police officer in the evidence depot should’ve been affected – I’m sure _they_ have mountains of unfinished casefiles on their desks.”

            “True,” Jason agrees. “So, that probably doesn’t count. Good for us. But then, what’s with the unfinished bit? I don’t even have anything other than this case on my plate, not even an overdue library book, so why did we get swapped in the first place?”

            “Hm. And why did we get _swapped_ at all?” Tim pressed, explaining, “Anna seemed to think the most likely scenario from exposure was for the victim to fall straight into a coma.”

            “I guess we Bats are just special,” Jason reasoned.

            Tim _hmmed_ thoughtfully, unwilling to agree with such limp logic, but equally unwilling to deny that the conclusion had merit – five years ago Jason was _dead_ , after all, and three years ago had seen Bruce lost in time… ‘Weird shit’ barely registered as even odd to them anymore.

            With a heavy sigh, Tim comments, “It’s getting pretty late, so I don’t think we can do too much more to be productive tonight. We still need to gift wrap Massimo for GCPD and I apparently have to contact Steph before she’ll give us any peace to _think_ in… I think it might be best if we wrap up for now and think about the ‘unfinished business’ possibilities before coming back fresh in the morning. I don’t know about you, but this body swap thing has me feeling pretty beat. I can’t even tell if it’s my own tiredness or yours.”

            Jason snorts emphatically. “Well, _mine_ is mostly yours,” he complains, hand going to rub at Tim’s sore shoulders. “But I can take Viggy out to his new friends in the fuzz on my own. I got a couple places I wanna stop by to check up on anyway, since we’re not patrolling. You just bitch out Blondie and get that big brain of your working on how to get this shit fixed up, a’ight?”

            Weighing the possibilities with a carefull look to gauge Jason’s genuine feelings on the matter, Tim gives a reluctant nod. He gets that Jason is probably chafing with the constant company of having Tim _right here_ , and that he probably needs a bit of time to himself to process the full scale of this mess – but still… an odd tightness pulls at his chest, not quite _worry_ exactly... but something uncomfortably close.

            “Don’t stay out too late,” Tim nannies, tone hiked up to be mockingly reminiscent of Dick’s in mother-hen mode rather than half as serious as he wants it to be. Jason won’t listen to him anyway, and he’d be even less likely to be careful if Tim pressed him seriously on it.

            “ _Yes, Dear_ ,” Jason snarks right back.

            They move quickly after the plan has been decided. Jason wriggles back into the Red Robin suit, pulling the full cowl back up over his face. Then he gets Massimo into a wheeled box with air vents that rolls smoothly and silently when pushed, they’ve used many different kinds of apparatus like it to transport special cases or move crooks when they’re exhausted or alone – so it won’t be too unusual for Red Robin to show up at some GCPD precinct HQ with a box of trussed up bad guy, complete with a stack of evidence and topped with a literal bow.

            Tim, meanwhile, takes a seat at the computer again – this time to set up a secure chat connection, direct to Spoiler’s gauntlet.

            Jason’s vanished out the door before Tim’s established the connection, and he basks in the solitude for a moment before typing out a hail.

            It’s hard to tell if Jason’s body likes being alone as much as Tim’s brain does, or if it misses Tim’s proximity… Or vice versa, with Jason’s body wanting the alone time and Tim’s brain creating an itch of worry strong enough to irritate his borrowed muscles.

            Either way, the moment of solitude is odd, but still more comforting that not, and Tim uses it to steel himself for the necessary conversation with Spoiler.

 

            _Red Robin to Spoiler - > O says you need to talk._

 

            She responds almost immediately. _Voice chat?_

 

            _Busy_. He shoots back. _Sound sensitive case work._

 

            Steph takes longer to choose her words this time. _Stakeout_? _B.fest after?_

_RR: BUSY. Case complications._

_S: U w/ Hood?_

_RR: Shared case._

_S: …_

_S: U OK?_

_RR: I called out sick, I didn’t flee the county._

_S: Still. U don’t DO that._

_RR: I do when I’m busy. This case got complicated._

_S: Complicated how?_

_RR: Just complicated. Nothing to worry you guys about._

_S: …_

_S: Hood stable?_

_RR: Has been for weeks._

_S: But like. Really? U 2 r good?_

 

            The burn of frustration at not being taken seriously makes Tim bite down hard on his molars. He can actually _feel_ the slither of the extra _oomph_ of the Pit’s whispers and this time he’s not blindsided by the rush of furious thoughts. He sits back and breathes deeply for a moment.

            It’s not Steph’s fault that she’s a touch over protective, and she’s faced enough of an abusive relationship with her father to worry that Tim’s just making excuses for his crush like she did for her dad – Steph is the only person who knows about Tim’s little crush. Even Kon and Bart don’t know _who_ he’s been pining for since he was a little kid.

            (Cass might know, but she hardly counts because she knows all the Family’s secrets, and she won’t tell a soul anyhow.)

            With that thought line to inspire him, Tim decides to risk going out on a limb.

            It’ll be an easy lie to get caught in later if he doesn’t play it just right, but right now he’s not particularly keen to care and he knows his track record is pretty damn flawless.

 

            _RR: We’re good. Better than good._

_RR: We’re…_

_RR: Finding out that we know each other better than we thought._

 

            Like Tim hoped it would, his phrasing and apparent hesitance piques Stephanie’s keenest interest as it pricks up all her juicy gossip sensors. She won’t tell anyone (except maybe Cass, but again, that’s fine because _Cass_ ) but she’s a sucker for a salacious story.

 

_S: Oh? Reaaaaaallllllllly, now?_

_S: U tell him ur in luuuurve, or what?_

_RR: Nothing so dramatic. Just circumstances._

_RR: The case made us see things from a new PoV and…_

_RR: Got complicated._

_S: So it’s THAT kind of complicated._ (ಠ‿↼)

_RR: Not quite. But…_

_RR: Closer._

_RR: The case itself is actually complicated too._

 

            It’s unfair to Jason for Tim to use his mere existence like this, and unfair of Tim to exploit Steph’s genuine, heart felt interest in his well being like this, but damn it, Tim has shit to _do_ today and this little ploy is going to ensure that this irksome tangent quickly runs its course.

            He needs to wrap this up so he can focus on his _actual problem_ right now.

 

_S: Need backup?_

_RR: Not yet._

 

            _S: Sure ur not just sayin that cuz u wanna be alone to bang ur bro?_

_RR: I’m sure. & geez, we’re not in HS. Grow up._

_S: If being grown up means I can’t tease you_

_S: esp. about wanting to ride those thunder thighs off into the sunset_

_S: then Imma move to Neverland. Young forever, boyfriend. Sucks for you._

 

            Tim groans audibly in the privacy of Jason’s empty safehouse, seriously regretting whatever bout of prepubescent weakness had ever prompted him to tell Steph about his _very mild and perfectly manageable crush_ in the first place.

            At least it’s currently proving to be a useful, albeit uncomfortable, distraction.

            Before Tim gets himself together enough to think about edging out of the conversation, Steph sends another message.

 

            _S: We still on for Hologram?_

_RR: Of course. It’s our case, S, & I promised._

_S: Good._

_RR: Stay safe, S._

_S: U 2._ (ಠ‿↼)

 

            Tim groans again and barely resists the urge to slam his forehead against the counter as Spoiler cuts the connection. When Tim recovers, he wipes the records of the chat, thoroughly clearing out any references to his crush to ensure that even Oracle couldn’t rebuild the slagged data bits without devoting a super computer and several long hours to the task.

            Oracle might already know. But Tim’s not gonna risk it.

            Actually, Oracle _probably_ already knows. But Tim’s gonna make sure that they can keep pretending to each other that she’s ignorant.

            Because _oh my god_ , he is **_not_ ** okay with the idea of talking to Babs about it…

            As soon as Tim finishes destroying every bit of data he can manage without destroying Jason’s system, he laces up his fingers and swings his arms over his head in a lingering stretch.

            It's been a conscious habit for too long to let it go now, even though Jason's shoulder muscles haven't gotten half as stiff and sore as Tim's used to having them feel.

            The reminder of their situation is an unnecessary prod of motivation to get his brain fired up and focused. The need to let his mind fixate makes him crave a strong cup of coffee – and when Jason's stomach makes no immediate protest to the idea of having one, Tim makes his way over to the kitchen.

            He gets all the way to the point of having a mug out and ready before he remembers that Jason is a tea drinker. The apartment upstairs has Tim's favorite blend of coffee stocked because the place is practically a public venue. But the Basement is Jason's private haven – stocked with nothing at all that Jason doesn’t personally use every single day.

            Which is going to be a _problem_ tomorrow morning if they don't switch back sometime in the night – Tim wants to be optimistic, but to say he doesn't come by such self delusion naturally would be a grossly excessive understatement. Tim’s very glad he's thought about it now, instead of forgetting until it inevitably comes up in the morning – _now,_ he can sneak upstairs and grab what he needs under calm conditions instead of having to battle through a morning inattention fog and risk having to make two trips.

            He doesn’t think Jason will make it back before he does, but Tim scribbles a note to let him know where he’s gone and leaves it on the counter before carefully slipping out the door – which he leaves propped open by a single quarter stuck in the latch, with half a player to any deity that's listening in hope that no one notices.

            Trying not to think about how Jason will probably _actually_ kill him if he gets the Basement burned, Tim slips silently up the fire escape to the public apartment. Getting inside is slightly more difficult than usual, being that the action is so familiar but the body he’s performing it with is so much bigger than what he's used to maneuvering.

            Once inside, Tim sets to his task immediately – well, almost immediately.

            There is apparently a savory loaf of cheese bread on the counter that Jason's stomach remembers being there and it demands that Tim tear off a junk to munch on while he works.

            Since the stomach is allowing him to have coffee at all, Tim feels the act of appeasement is well worth it. The bread is tasty, too.

            It's nice and chewy, and over all extremely satisfying, as he collects the supplies for grinding and blending and brewing up tomorrow's coffee, bundling everything up inside a table cloth he finds under the sink. He doesn't even forget to bring the machine itself – something that seems like it should be obvious, but would probably be the first thing he forgot if he’d waited until the morning.

            Tim is just finishing up with his packing, turning to survey the kitchen for anything else he might've forgotten (and debating whether or not to take the cheese bread with him when he heads back down) when every alarm in the place goes off.

            He doesn't quite jump out of his skin, but his hands are definitely reaching on autopilot for the ceramic knife apparently hidden behind the toaster. The alarms shut off after less than five seconds and every screen in the room glows Oracle green with a running count down and a simple message in white text: _N incoming. South side._

            Oh, _Shit._

            Dick's on his way – less than 20 seconds out – and Tim is _not_ ready… he can’t possibly to face him right now, not while he's stuck in Jason's body, and when he's been caught off guard...

            Vowing to get Babs a _very_ nice bottle of wine as thanks for the warning, Tim grabs his bundle of coffee supplies (and snatches up the loaf of cheese bread for good measure) and then awkwardly finagles his way out onto the fire escape – tucking himself up under a ledge he knows will hide him from view for anyone inside.

            It won’t hide him _well,_ but it should be enough. He's just grateful that the fire escape is on the building's _north_ side.

            Tim has barely gotten settled and silent when he hears Dick shout a hopeful greeting inside. “Tim? Jason? You guys here?”

            _‘I already told you they'd left’,_ comes Oracle's familiar, mechanized voice – somehow able to convey sassy exasperation as well as any human voice.

            “But the lights are on,” Dick whines with a deeper curl of frustration born from a potent kind of real concern – a worry that’s not just his typical smothering big brother complex.

            ‘ _They're on a timer,’_ Barbara supplies – a perfectly legitimate explanation, but one that Tim strongly suspects is not true. ‘ _Now get out of there. If they realize you're there, all it's gonna end in is a fight._ ’

            Dick breathes out a heavy, almost pained sort of sigh.

            “I just wanna know that they're okay.”

            ‘ _They are. Ask Steph. She was **just** talking to Tim.’_

“But only _texting_ ,” Dick complains. “I know it's not likely, but I’m just worried that they got into a fight and Tim got hurt and Jason bolted and now Tim's covering for him or something. He _does_ cover for him, you know… And he does it, way too often.”

            Indignation rises hotly in Tim's – in _Jason's –_ chest _,_ and he barely resists the urge to huff audibly. He waits for Babs to defend him, but she doesn't even address the statement when she responds, ‘ _I spoke to Jason less than an hour ago. Their case hit a complication, but they want to handle it themselves.’_

            Dick sighs again, reluctant and worried.

            “Jay didn’t want to take this job, you know,” he admits gravely, “When Tim first suggested they team up, Jason asked me if I was free to partner up with him instead.”

            A beat of quiet is all the hint Babs gives to reveal that this is news to her.

            ‘ _Did he say why_?’

            “Just the usual BS about having other stuff on his plate and not wanting Tim to get in the way,” Dick reports. At the prompt of Barbara’s silent pressuring he goes on, “I think he's aware of how volatile he gets around the Family … and with the…   _anniversary_ looming, and how he doesn’t want to talk about any of it… and I think he knows Tim can be oblivious and that if he notices something off, he'll keep pushing buttons until he gets an answer… and with the human trafficking case we've still got open getting under his skin… I think Jason was worried from the outset that he was going to snap, I think that he was trying to do the right thing because he thought he might overreact, and possibly hurt Tim again…”

            Barbara's answer doesn’t come quickly enough to convince Tim that she wholeheartedly believes it. ‘ _I’m sure you're overthinking things, Dick_ ,’ she tells him, promising, ‘ _I’ll keep a close eye on them for you, but they asked for space and you need to respect that_.’

            Dick spends another few moments wavering, but eventually he blows out a breath and admits defeat. At Barbara's firm instruction, he submits to heading out – and to giving Tim and Jason a full 18 hours to sort themselves out in peace.

            Tim breathes a sigh of relief when he hears that. 18 hours isn't a lot, but it's more than he had thought worth hoping for with Dick being so proactively concerned.

            As soon as he's reasonably sure that Dick has left, Tim scrambles back down to the Basement and slips inside, carefully securing the door behind him. He deposits his coffee haul on the kitchen counter and gets it all set up while he finishes off the loaf of cheese bread.

            Then, with a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he sits himself down in front of the Heka Ariset to meditate on the question of what exactly it wants from them.

            Unfortunately, he has to fight for his focus – his mind keeps drifting over Dick's words: _Jay didn’t want to take this job_.

            Tim doesn't know if it's the Pit's influence that means he takes the comment so personally, or if it's something else entirely… but, regardless, he doesn’t manage to accomplish much between the time he sits down to think and the moment Jason drags himself back inside.

 

 

________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, y'all, enjoy the hell out of your family today, even if you hate them!
> 
> Also, tomorrow is Black Friday in America (does the rest of the world even care / have an equivalent? Meh, 'murica... I guess...)... If you are a human who is planning on going out to brave the craziness for crazy good deals, BE NICE TO THE FRICKING RETAIL WORKERS. I run a children's bookstore, and with the demise of Toys R Us, we've got a lot of things we didn't have before (things that people on Black Friday will want) and my staff is half built out of new seasonal workers that have NO IDEA WHAT'S COMING FOR THEM... I can't imagine that other places are too different. Seasonal workers make up almost half the retail work force this time of year, so there's a good chance you'll run into a terrified kid who is convinced that failure here will destroy their entire future.
> 
> So just be NICE. Be patient and as clear as possible in explaining what you want from a customer service worker. Okay?
> 
> Anyway, NEXT TIME: Jason contends with some actual casework while Tim focuses on getting them back into their own bodies, because crime in Gotham never sleeps and they've all got active cases still...


	9. A Walk in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason splits off from Tim for a while and digs into a few of his own affairs... Things go very differently for him as Red ROBIN than they ever do as Red HOOD, and along the way Jase gets some insights into how Timmy's little world works for him (and against him).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo /i didn't wanna be (here)/ has definitely taken over my life, but I wanna make sure y'all know that the other fics in this series have NOT been abandoned!
> 
> Also... this one wasn't really supposed to have a plot, but boom, there's plot. Like, an actual case with real baddies and connections and everything... we'll see if it pans out properly. ^_~
> 
> On wards! To Jason facing peeps who like teasing Red Robin almost as much as Jason does...
> 
> _

 

**Chapter 9 – A Walk in the Dark**

 

 

            There’s a pretty significant difference between being _nervous_ and being _anxious_ ; and Jason can feel that difference in every hotwired fiber of Tim’s body as he walks the Gotham streets at ground level while taking Ludwig Massimo out to GCPD’s door step.

            It’s different than the tension he’s used to feeling when he’s vulnerable – less a pointed fear and more a cyclical rut of constant, painfully affecting _doubt_.

            Jason’s not exactly sure what he’s got doubt _in_ , but it’s definitely not something that could be soothed by any measure of skill or strength, or by any push of practice.

            Jason thinks it might have something to do with being out here alone – not that Tim’s body thinks it’s too vulnerable when operating without comrades close by (if anything, Tim’s always been the most independent of the Robins), but some sort of uncertainty in whether or not he’ll be able… or _allowed_ , rather, to return to the group… because it’s not the being out here that’s making the inside of his muscles itch, it’s the thought of wrapping up and heading home.

            It’s probably something Jason should investigate more thoroughly, but he’s got a fair few other things to handle at the moment, and the mind boggling labyrinth of Tim’s deep seeded self esteem issues is a project just a bit too big to tackle on a whim.

 

            For now, he focuses on wheeling Massimo right up to the GCPD's door and making sure that they take careful custody of the sleaze ball. As soon as he's certain they're taking proper care with the creep, Jason zips off into the shadows in the direction of his usual beat at the heart of Crime Alley – keeping to ground level to give a break to Tim’s poor, clearly abused shoulders.

            He gets as far as the corner of Pax and Adler, looking towards the old foundry district before he remembers that he's not out as the Red Hood and needs to act accordingly.

            Red Robin wouldn't be anything but cautious in setting foot in a back alley like this, not in Hood's territory. The people here are as likely to trust an invading Bat as they are to invite the Commish on a red carpet drive by in whatever gang war might be the flavor of the week.

            And even if he's got a BS sounding excuse that Hood sent him, Jason can’t have Red Robin getting too comfy on his turf or folk'll start to talk – and the Red Hood can’t abide by _that_ for even a single hot second. He might be getting’ pretty cozy with the Bats (far cozier than he ever meant to, even), and that might be public knowledge at this point, but Red Hood still runs by his own code and rules over his part of town with an unwavering authority.

            Jason's not particularly keen on having to beat the baby bird up again to prove he's still got the hard ass edge that carved out his private swath of Gotham's shadows to start with.

            So instead of strolling in with his usual swagger and calling straight out for Cinna like he owns the whole damn place (because he _does,_ obviously), Jason slinks into the old Jamieson Smeltworks like a Bat outta bounds who knows he doesn't belong.

            He finds the Jamieson pack of working girls gathering in the lounge at the back of the foundry, relaxing with each other as they wait for the last few stragglers to make it back to the den. They’re a close knit community, sharing tips and stories and building up a collective pool of resources to take care of their own when the nights occasionally, but inevitably, run lean for some of ‘em – or when one of the girls gets hurt or sick and needs a night off the prowl.

            It’s a neat system, one they’ve worked out almost entirely on their own, with Jason’s help as Red Hood only going to keeping the greedy, grubby hands of would-be pimps off their beats.

            A few of the less appalling scumbags – i.e. _former_ pimps turned wage run promoters and public affairs peeps – have been allowed to stick around, but Red Hood’s vigilance is a constant, legitimate _threat_ that keeps them all on their best behavior.

            Once he’s circled them lounging in their group, and once he spots the group’s leader laying out on a chaise and is confident that they haven't spotted him moving in the shadows (because baby bird’s got some _mad_ stealth skills, being so tiny and all, which is _way_ more fun than it should be), Jason steps into view without ceremony and simply waits for them to notice.

            It takes a moment (again, _mad_ stealth and tiny figure), but soon – and far sooner than it would be in any other part of town – the girls' chatter falls silent and they all level distrustful glowers at Red Robin, forcing him to break the silence first.

            Just like he taught them.

            “I’m looking for a Miss Cinnamon,” Red Robin declares, voice perfectly clear and quietly calm, utterly free of any defensive edge – and polite by force of instinct Jason can’t drown out.

            Jason feels Tim's muscles _twitch_ , though, as the girls eye him with aggressive smirks… Even as the muscles all stay loose and relaxed, Jason feels Tim’s fingers drifting towards the bo staff that should have been attached to his back – Tim had made it more than muscle memory to ensure he never underestimated any potential assailant and, honestly, Jason finds himself a bit more impressed by the paranoid diligence than he probably should.

            “Well, lookie you, Pretty Bird,” a warm voice purrs with a thick amusement and a low Gotham lilt. She chuckles and adds, “ain’t you just the sneakiest little bastard in the bunch?”

            Cinna stands in the center of the group, arms crossed and posture strong, but a smile spreading easily across her face. She’s still on guard, but clearly impressed with Red Robin’s stealth – and with the gall he has to just stroll on up in here like this.

            And she knows Red Robin by sight and knows his rep by countless gossiped stories.

            “Are you Cinnamon?”

            Red Robin always keeps his bases covered, and that means getting concrete answers.

            “ ‘pends on who’s askin’, and _why_.”

            Cinna grins as she speaks and then in a gesture like a shrug for her, she pushes up on the tight coils of her hair – the scarlet dye job would look gaudy on most girls, but on Cinna, it’s actually a nice compliment to the warm undertones of her dark skin. As Hood, Jason has spent more than just a little time admiring the effect – and how Cinna plays it up with how she moves and dresses – but inside Tim’s bizarre little body, he doesn’t even feel a niggle of distraction.

            “Red Hood sent me,” Jason says, mimicking that annoying thing Tim does when he answers a question truthfully without actually giving anything away. He never introduces himself and Jason’s half convinced the only reason anyone in Gotham knows Red Robin’s name is that they’ve heard the _other_ capes shouting the stupid thing while chasing after him across the skyline. “He asked me to come by, to check on Sugar.”

            The girls rustle as a group for a moment, nerves and personal worries or something getting the better of them for a few seconds before they still and defer to Cinnamon’s judgement.

            They all know Red Robin, know he’s one of the good guys – he’s a pretty popular cape in Gotham, hovering somewhere around third place as the brute friendliness of Nightwing and Batgirl bowl over all resistance to their garnering affection. And besides, Hood’s talked about his dealings with the Bats enough for them to know that even among true gold-heart good guys, Red Robin is probably the most particularly trustworthy, and certainly the least judgmental.

            Cinna smiles and accepts Red Robin’s presence enough to levy an amused question.

            “Why not drop by himself?”

            “He’s a little laid up at the moment,” Jason explains, adding quickly, “He’ll be fine. He just took a few hard hits and needs to nap it off. But he said he needed to check on Sugar before he could actually get any rest. I volunteered to do it for him.”

            Cinna’s smile stretches.

            “You drug him?”

            Jason cracks his own wicked smile, the gritty ruthless one that always makes Tim look like he’s two steps from turning super villain. The Dark Side has the darkest coffee, after all.

            “Why would you think that?”

            With a warm chuckle, low in her belly, Cinna says, “Hood likes you for a reason, Pretty Bird, and it ain’t just because you’re cute – though do I have to admit, Hood’s got better taste than I’d’ve guessed. You’re pretty damn adorable up close.”

            _That_ causes a bizarre flutter in Tim’s chest and Jason has to fight the unexpected feeling to keep his breathing smooth and even. It’s the anxiety again, not quite the same as the feeling from when he first set off alone, but similar enough for Jason to connect the two – some strangely specific awareness of Tim’s own social awkwardness, hard-wired and instinctive.

            Kid can stare down fucking Ra’s al Ghul with a bored calm at the predictability of his semi-seasonal kidnappings, but a god damn _compliment_ is what’s gonna end up killing him.

            Typical stupid little alien robot idiot.

            Jason’s gonna have to talk to Dick about this shit eventually – as soon as they’re back to normal and Jason has a few minutes to think up some excuse for it – because if there’s anything Big Blue likes doing, it’s smothering his family with love and praise. If Jason frames it right, he should be able to get Dick hell bent on breaking Tim’s resistance to being called out for something he should understand is positive.

            But.

            That’s for later.

            Right now, he’s gotta find a way to focus while Tim’s stupid little body tries to throw every drop of blood it has into the ridiculous blush clawing at his face.

            “Aw, you’re even cuter when you’re flustered,” Cinna comments, _way_ too pleased about the effect she’s having. “Bet he likes _that_ bit about ya, bet he likes it a whole lot.”

            Admittedly, Jason couldn’t really deny Cinna her fun.

            Or her words.

            Tim was… distractingly hilarious to tease – and it was always so easy to draw a reaction out of his usually stone cold stoic demeanor that it was an impossible temptation to resist.

            “Now, I wonder… You get all pretty and pink for just any old comment calling you cute, or is this whole schtick just ‘cause it’s Hood that thinks you’re so adorable?”

            Jason feels Tim’s heart rate kick up again, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s his own indignation or if all of it is Tim’s weird ass ridiculous reaction rising up in him.

            With plenty of _words_ coming to mind for Jason to snap back at Cinna, he finds his chest too tight and strained for oxygen to make any comeback slide out smoothly… And more than that, before he’s able to get his tongue under any kind of control, the deeper implications of the words work their way into his brain.

            “I’m not— _he’s_ not— You don’t— I. No. Nononono, no, _no_ — You just—”

            Cinna just about cackles herself silly at his struggles.

            “C’mon, Pretty Bird,” she coos with wicked delight, “The Big Bad Hood is smitten with you. Boy’s got it _bad_ , honey, and don’t you tell me you haven’t noticed it, at all. Hood’s always yappin’ on about that big ol’ brain a yours, about how you’re just _so_ good at solvin’ all them tricky puzzles you crazy capes deal with, and Hood ain’t that hard a puzzle.”

            Tim’s body is still frazzled to the point of making any attempt at communication utterly ineffectual, so he chooses not to even try to protest Cinna’s claims. And beyond that, Jason’s mind is reeling from upset at the possibility that he’s been so transparent about his regard for Red Robin. He’s known the Bat Clan’s baby bird had _always_ had a special draw for him, but between his general asshole-er-y and the consequences of his bout with Lazarus Pit Mania, the vague possibility of his wanting _more_ from Tim had been shut down completely… _long_ before Jason came to fully rationalize the nuanced differences between his feelings for Tim and the feelings he had for the rest of the Family.

            As soon as he figured it all out – figured out that he’d not only lost his chance, but that even if he’d ever had one, Tim deserved better, deserved _stable_ and safe and sane – Jason had clamped down on his insane notion of winning any smidge of the former Robin’s affection.  

            The idea that Jason’s been so transparent… that _other_ , more observant people, might have some inkling of his ridiculous feelings… It’s altogether an unnerving thought.

            He’s not _as_ worried about Tim knowing – that idiot is oblivious to social circumstances on his best day, ironic as that may be when talking about the only Bat to have a truly successful daytime career (and social skills that have been repeatedly lauded by all of the nation’s hottest gossip rags)… But still...

            It’s… _possible_ that Tim knows and simply has been too polite to tell Jason to shove his selfish stupidity so deep down in hell that even a Lazarus Pit couldn’t revive that shit…

            That thought, Jason knows, is a bit irrational – Tim doesn’t hold his tongue with _Batman_ , let alone with someone so much less worthy of his respect.

            That’s just Tim’s own natural proclivity to anxiety kicking up (the kid is apparently kind of a god damn wreck of a semi functional human being in that way), and Jason can tamp the worst of it down after having gotten so used to fighting down the whispers of the Pit.

            But the other worries, the idea that the other Bats might know… that they might be holding back one last trump card to hit him with when he screws up badly enough for the rest of them to want him gone for good… that’s a bit too close to plausible to be easily swallowed.

            Either way, there’s nothing much he can do about it _now_ (except be very grateful to his own paranoia for the part it played with insisting that Jason come do this himself, instead of simply sending in Tim to do it in Jason’s body… though, this conversation would’ve probably played out very differently if the Red Hood had shown up himself…).

            Regardless, Cinna is still smirking, and Tim’s frazzled nerves are doing their damndest to cut off all hope he has of getting any oxygen to his brain.

            Working through the breathing technique designed to yank himself out of a panic attack, Jason gets Tim’s body to cease and desist its riot.

            Cinna is still smiling when he looks back at her after forcing a measure of calm into his borrowed body, but her expression is softer – _sweeter_.

            “Come now, Pretty Bird,” she croons, “You’re a fun one to tease, but I didn’t mean to get you all crazy worked up. Makes a bit a sense outta how Hood’s been holdin’ back, though. He’s one the good ones, you know? Just tryin’ to do right by you… Boy might be a bit rough around the edges, but he’s all heart underneath.”

            Jason’s not sure he appreciates that sentiment, and certainly isn’t keen on having it become any kind of public knowledge, but even he can’t quite deny that it’s entirely inaccurate.

            Roy and Kori have called him their gun toting teddy bear too often for that much.

            Choosing to refocus on the mission instead of dwelling in the uncomfortable space where human feelings dig under the corners of the daily domino, Jason clears his throat and manages to force a few words out, “He’s all heart enough to want to know how Sugar is faring.”

            Cinna’s smile pulls a little wider for a second as she shakes her head gently. Then she sobers and asks with a loose curl of edgy suspicion, “Hood tell you what happened to her?”

            “No.”

            “Good,” Cinna accepts. “Suga’s gonna be fine, eventually. She’s still sleeping things off. She won’t be up and about for a few more days, and while I’m sure she’d get a kick out of _you_ being here, I’m not about to make her come out to chat… You should drop by again though, maybe bring Hood with you and we’ll make a proper party of the introduction, eh?”

            Tim’s body stiffens with the instinctive resistance to being lightly dismissed, but Jason knows that Cinna wouldn’t be anything but straight with him – and he knows that once Cinna’s put her foot down about visiting hours being over, trying to push back won’t do anyone favors.

            Jason forces the muscles in Tim’s neck to nod.

            “I’ll, um – Hood’ll be by to keep you all updated on the case,” Jason manages to say as he feels an odd swirl building in his belly. It’s a roil that’s not exactly unpleasant, but it is impossible to ignore and it only gets worse as Jason farewells Cinna and the girls and heads stiffly back out onto the streets.

            The feeling ignites an itch in Tim’s veins that makes his muscles twitch and his heart race – a disquiet that’s worsening with every step away from Jamieson Smeltworks.

            He’s back on the corner of Pax and Adler before he figures it out.

 

            It’s the lack of confirmation.

 

            Cinna _said_ that Sugar is recovering just fine, but without seeing it first-hand… there’s still no technical proof that Cinna’s account is truthful. Jason trusts her completely regarding her assessment, but he knows that Tim is a paranoid little data freak who fact checks _Batman._

 

            On the regular.

 

            It’s apparently part of the kid’s DNA to be suspicious and need his own, personal confirmation of fuckin’ _everything_. Jason tries to ignore the itch, tries to just shut it down like it’s the Pit’s whispers making him twitchy, but he only gets another block out before the roil in his gut makes him have to lean against a wall to stay upright.

            It's that anxiety again – a sort of physical nausea that comes about like seasickness, sneaking up on a victim as the landscape shifts around them so as to make them have to doubt their very senses because the various pieces of sensory input they are receiving simply don’t agree. The inner-ear says the body is moving, but the eyes say it’s not… the brain struggles to sort out a solid reality from the dissonance…

            No matter how confident Jason is in the idea that Cinna would be straight with him, he also knows how badly she was hurt, and the only way to be sure about the truth if it is to go see for himself. And the idea of bringing back unverified information about a vigilante case, where the health and safety of his Family members are on the line, makes Tim’s body physically ill.

            If Jason got bad info, he would blame the informant… but Tim clearly blames himself. And Jason can’t untangle how much of the physical response is mental conditioning and how much is natural instinct – though, either way, they’ve _clearly_ been underestimating Tim's continuing proclivity toward self doubt and insecurity.

            Jason has always known the baby bird is one hell of a perfectionist, but this is still pretty damn alarming.

            He can't go back to the Basement without checking up on Sugar himself – he can’t even make Tim’s body walk another five feet without losing his lunch – so Jason decides to stealth mode his way into confirming Cinna's story. It shouldn’t be too hard – Sugar’s room is on the third floor, at the east side of the building, and she likes to feel the sunrise on her face so she usually leaves her curtains open.

            Checking up on her personally won’t be difficult and it will make him feel a lot better about everything, so honestly it shouldn't even be a question.

            The instant he decides it, Tim's stomach settles.

            He scrambles up a fire escape and makes his way back to the Jamieson Smeltworks via rooftop. It's even easier to check on Sugar than he had guessed: because Cinna's gone up to bring her some food and regale her with the story of Red Robin's visit, so the light in her room is on, and she's up and talking.

            The lenses on Red Robin's cowl zoom in with disturbingly fantastic detail – almost as much HD quality as the ones on Jason's Hood – and he has an augmented listening system in one of his utility pockets that folds out into an impressively powerful directional mic.

            Jason can see and hear everything happening in Sugar's room from the next roof over just as well as he could from being right with them in the room.

            They’re being regular girls about the whole thing, goin’ all gooey and coo-y and sweet.

            Jason ignores that bit and tries to focus entirely on assessing Sugar’s condition.

            She looks… well, she still looks bad, but she looks better than she had when Jason had first found her after she’s disappeared two weeks ago. She’d gotten herself involved in that child trafficking case the Bats still have open, entirely of her own volition – she’d just been in the right place at the exact moment an urchin got nabbed off the streets and she’d felt compelled to attempt to intervene – and… it hadn’t gone well for her.

            Her perfect china doll face still bears a few bruises, but they’re yellowing out at this point and soon her pale skin will be just as smooth and perfect as it used to be. The bruised ribs will take her longer to get over, but seeing her sitting up here soothes most of Jason’s worries on that matter. It’s the fact that she didn’t manage to save the kid that Jason’s really worried about.

            Jason doesn’t know much about Sugar’s story, has no idea how she got to working nights on the darkest corners of the Gotham streets, but he knows she’s not a native Gothamite and that she’s always been far too soft and sweet for the turns her life had taken to make her wind up here. She was as sweet a soul as her name implies and the fact that she lost the kid to whoever the fucked up asshole is that’s snatching them… won’t be something she’ll get over easy.

            Jason’s never asked, but… he’s pretty sure she’d had a kid of her own once, long before her name became ‘Sugar’. However she lost _that_ kid… whelp, it ain’t playin well with the fact that she’d lost this random one to human traffickers.

            The observation that she’s cooing with Cinna over Red Robin, the implication that the cooing is distracting enough for Cinna to con the walking tragedy of a working girl into munching on some sort of snack, makes the last of Jason’s tight concern relax – and it makes the thrum of anxiety itching in Tim’s bones ease.

            Which makes him remember how much all of Tim’s muscles currently hurt.

            It’s been so easy to forget about it when he’d been climbing _up_ the side of the building and leaping over rooftops in order to get _to_ Sugar, but the prospect of heading back _down_ makes Tim’s shoulders throb in dismay. And his thighs… and all the rest of his muscles…

            Whelp.

            That at least explains a little bit more about why Tim’s body is so frickin’ sore.

            Goddamn idiot can just _forget_ how much he hurts when he gets focused on an objective, and then do stupid shit that just makes him hurt way worse… And Jason even starts to understand the dismissive, ‘ _fuck it_ ’ mentality Tim had when describing this impossible soreness as his usual, because getting back to the Basement is either going to require a long slow walk at ground level, or a quick but excruciating swing through the skyline.

            Jason picks the skyline route, if only because he’s eager to get back and check in with Tim to see if that idiot’s ridiculous little genius brain has figured anything else out about how to set a course on solving their current situation.

            He’s hurting like a _mother_ by the time he touches down outside the hidden alcove that accesses his Basement, the kind of hurting that would make him cranky and cantankerous and put him in dire need of a cigarette before he could even pretend to be a remotely sociable creature if he were in his own body. In Tim’s body… well, the niggle that he’s coming to understand is Tim’s coffee craving is starting to kick up again.

            There’s also something else, something that surprisingly doesn’t make his stomach churn when Jason thinks about the salmon fillet he knows he’s got stashed in the freezer. He’s maybe even got a bundle of asparagus and a bit of lemon and garlic and basil… and Jason’s got a plan for dinner that Tim’s stomach is miraculously unopposed to by the time he drags himself through his door.

            The coffee smell that hits immediately makes him perk up to an irrational, downright irresponsible degree. It’s about 2am at this point, so still pretty early to be wrapping up completely for a night of active casework, but Tim’s body shouldn’t be feeling _quite_ so exuberant about the potential of a caffeine boost giving him the ability to push through like six more hours.

            He spots Tim on the couch – hunched over himself in Jason’s massive figure.

            There’s a cup of coffee balanced on one knee and his hands are folded in a contemplative mudra as he stares at the box containing the Heka Ariset.

            He doesn’t look up when Jason comes in and Jason takes advantage to slip into the kitchen to pull the ingredients of his plans for supper out onto the counter and start preheating the oven before he even pulls Red Robin’s cowl off his face. (Tragically, he has no asparagus, must have used that up with the pork tenderloin from last week, but still, the salmon will be good enough for an immediate, emergency nutritional boost.)

            Then he trips into the spare room and rushes through the motions of changing into the sweats he’d thrown on earlier – very carefully not thinking about the process or anything related to it as he goes. Tim’s still staring at the box with the shitty old mirror inside it when Jason steps out while tying up Tim’s obnoxiously soft and silky hair with one of Roy’s elastics.

            “I’m making salmon for dinner,” Jason announces, heading back to the kitchen.

            He hears the couch creak as Tim finally looks up and shifts position. A moment later the couch creaks again as Tim stands and shuffles over to the breakfast bar. Jason doesn’t look up from what he’s doing to prep the salmon right away.

            It’s a shame to cook a fillet like this straight from frozen, but he’s gotta put food in Tim’s stomach while that stomach isn’t about to riot, so speed is of the essence. A little bit of foil, and an awful lot of butter, and the fillet will stay nice and moist despite the rush job.

            Then he sits down across from Tim, who’s still silent as he stares – though he offers an olive branch of sorts in passing over a fresh cup of coffee to match the new refill he’s produced for himself. Tim transitions to staring at his new coffee, looking reluctant to down much more of it, but like he might force the issue for spite.

            Jason meanwhile, drains the whole of his own cup in a few long sips without even a pause to come up for air. The caffeine shudders into his bloodstream with the kind of needy ease that Jason can only compare to the heady jolt of nicotine.

            It’s only after he settles from that rush that Jason looks over at Tim straight on – it’s still utterly unnerving to be looking at his own god damn face.

            Unnerving and _annoying._

            Between Tim’s own careful practice with keeping up a façade and Jason’s own ingrained and automatic blankness, it’s still frustratingly difficult to get any kind of genuine read on what Tim’s actually feeling right now.

            If Jason hadn’t spent several years at this point learning how to read Tim through an almost infinite series of masks layered on him via expressions and mannerisms borrowed straight off the faces of people he respected, seeing through Jason’s face to read the _Tim_ in Tim’s expression would be utterly impossible.

            Even so, it’s tricky to guess at whether Tim’s silence is productive preoccupation where his genius IQ is wrapped up tight and comfy in solving their problem, or whether it’s a symptom of it’s own problem. Jason’s leaning towards the thought that it’s a separate, building issue.

            He’s proven right when he levels a forceful stare he _knows_ Tim can feel and Tim lifts his eyes enough for Jason to spot the shimmer of green flitting about the edges of his irises.

            It’s not an uncontrollable spiral, but it’s also not a pleasant plateau.

 

            Well, _fuck_.

 

            Asking what’s wrong will only make it worse – acting like a trigger to unleash the flood.

            Jason doesn’t like it, but he knows himself well enough to know he ought to wait.

            Tim’s body _really_ doesn’t like it. Fluttering anxiety makes breathing difficult right away.

            Jason has to bite Tim’s tongue, quite literally, to hold it.

 

            His control’s about to snap as Tim _finally_ finds words he content with using and says darkly, “You didn’t want to take this job.”

            Jason blinks.

            Whatever he might’ve been unconsciously expecting, it hadn’t been close to _that_.

            “With me,” Tim qualifies, reiterating with elaboration, “You didn’t want to take this job, _with me_ … You tried to pass it off onto Dick.”

            There’s clearly no use in attempting to deny it, so Jason doesn’t bother. “How’d you find that shit out? You been talking to big bird tonight?”

            Tim shakes Jason’s head – still, wicked eerie enough to distract Jason for a split second – and then gestures to the coffee maker on the counter. A coffee maker that Jason used without thinking just moments ago, but one that definitely wasn’t there when Jason had left him alone here just a few hours before this.

            “You’re going to need coffee right away in the morning, so I went upstairs to grab that before it became an emergency,” Tim explains. “Nightwing showed up as I was slipping out and he had a little chat with Oracle while I was stuck on the fire escape.”

            Jason nods, sorting the information into place.

            “So, if you didn’t want to work with me, why did you agree to do it?”

            With an eyebrow raised dramatically, Jason asks, “Shouldn’t you be asking why the hell I wouldn’t want to in the first place?”

            Tim shrugs. “That’s a longer list of possibilities.”

            “Still probably the more important question,” Jason counters.

            “Not really,” Tim retorts, “Since your reason for doing it anyway clearly won out.”

            That’s fair enough, Jason supposes.

            But still...

            Jason thinks there’s something more to it.

            He doesn’t have much right to push it though, so he just shrugs and tries to let it go – tries to focus on giving Tim an actual answer to his question.

            “You needed back up,” Jason tells him simply. When Tim squints at him suspiciously, he adds heavily, “And the reasons I didn’t want to weren’t worth not getting you that.”

            “Why didn’t Dick take it off your hands,” Tim asks.

            “Because he’s being an idiot and overworking himself,” Jason explains. “He’s got three solo Bat cases open and at least twice as many for his work with GCPD and BPD. He probably would’ve done it if I’d really pushed him, but like I said, my reasons weren’t worth it.”

            Tim continues squinting at him, trying to eek out any tiny bit of data he can scrounge from the void of his own blank expression.

            Jason squints back, his own suspicion growing and that earlier niggle of disquiet rising.

            “Why won’t you ask me why I didn’t want to?”

            “It doesn’t matter,” Tim dismisses, curt with a slide of _something_ more.

            “Seems like it does. You care why, so why won’t you ask?”

            “Caring is a matter of opinion, nothing of actual relevance,” Tim replies sharply – an oblique admission that he _does_ care.

            The Pit’s beginning to play with the turmoil and Jason grits his teeth to pull himself back from asking anything more. It’s clear that Tim’s aware of what’s happening this time, and that he can work himself out of it without Jason’s help (so long as Jason stops actively poking at the sore spots), and Jason’s spent the last year trying to be genuinely helpful.

            Trying to rebuild _some_ semblance of a relationship with the Bats, with Tim in particular.

            Sending the baby bird into a psychotic break would _not_ forward that goal.

            At all.

 

            Besides, they have a case to work.

 

            With a heavy sigh – well, as heavy as Tim’s tiny ribcage allows – Jason transitions to a more immediate topic, “You think up any brilliant new plans to try to get the mirror to work?”

            Frustration that the Pit can play with switches over in a blink to a more scientific sort and he latches onto it. “Unfortunately not,” he relays, “The only thing I can think of is maybe sleeping out here… To both be closer to the mirror, because Anna said it works on proximity, and to more closely replicate the circumstances of the first switch.”

            There’s a harshness to the way that Tim close’s his mouth, a suddenness to it, that makes Jason think the Pit’s fighting to get back in – making Tim want to bite out a question of whether or not he’d rather pass on the idea of sleeping so close to Tim like he had wanted to pass on working so closely with him.

            Jason lets it go.

            “I got more blankets and pillows than I know what to do with down here,” Jason mentions, “May as well put ‘em to good use while I’ve got an excuse for it. But we’re eating dinner first. _You_ need the calories, my physique is not maintained by air, coffee, and energy drinks like yours seems to be. And I wanna get some good fats and protein into your blood stream before your lack of nutrition makes me fall off a roof.”

            “I’m _fine_ ,” Tim grumbles. “I’ve got at _least_ two more weeks of running on literal empty before you’ve got any chance of _that_ happening.”

            Jason _really_ does not want to know how Tim has that time frame so quick on his tongue.

            “Also, I had food,” Tim mentions with an offhanded sniff of offense, “There was cheese bread on your counter. I just finished off the loaf.”

            Pinching the bridge of Tim’s nose as he struggles to understand how someone so damn smart could possibly be so fucking stupid, Jason declares, “A loaf of bread is barely a meal.”

            “It’s sustenance,” Tim returns, utterly unapologetic. “And it was tasty.”

            “It was _bread_ , you don’t just eat _bread_ ,” Jason grumbles, qualifying, “On its own, it’s good enough, but it’s supposed to be eaten _with_ things. It makes both aspects taste better.”

            Tim gives a flippant shrug. “ _I_ thought it was tasty.”

            Jason just shakes his head and checks on his fish, suddenly wishing he had a fresh reef of spinach or asparagus or _something_ to so this idiot what a real _meal_ is supposed to taste like.

            A thought strikes Jason suddenly, and horrified revulsion streaks down his spine.

            “I swear to god, if you drink any of that Soylent shit…”

            Tim meets Jason’s growl with a blank stare and another off-handed shrug. “I don’t drink it often, but it’s not something I throw off the table. I mean, it’s pretty bland, but some days when I _need_ a meal, I would way rather spend ten minutes drinking liquefied oatmeal than waste an hour of my life getting something else.”

            Jason just shakes his head in utter defeat and promises, “I am going to kidnap your scrawny ass the second we switch back. You need like a month of forced vacation in Italy, god damn it. _Soylent is **not food**_.”

            Tim just shrugs again.

            He gives one last, almost mournful, look at the mirror on the coffee table, and then turns his attention to the TV’s remote control sitting beside it.

            “So, since we have to eat dinner before we turn in, anything you want to watch?”

            Jason shrugs.

            “It’s been a _helluva_ long time since I watched _Avatar: Last Air Bender_ ,” he mentions.

            Tim nods agreeably. “Is that on a streaming service or is this safe house permanent enough for you to have media storage on this TV?”

            “Media storage,” Jason admits, feeling oddly calm about the side step confession – he’s never told any of the other Bats that he even _had_ semi-permanent safe houses, let alone showed any of them where to find one.

            According to the other Bats, the apartment upstairs is the only place he’s maintained for longer than three weeks and because of it’s point in being a semi-public sort of venue, an accessible bolt hole for any cape caught in Crime Alley, it hardly counts for anything.

            Extraordinary circumstances, extraordinary actions, Jason supposes easily as Tim hands over the remote without a drop of hesitation.

            Jason punches in his unlock pattern, brings up the show, and gets it rolling as they settle in to wait for the fish to finish.

            It doesn’t take too long for the food to wrap up and Jason delivers two plates to the table, giving Tim in Jason’s body a solid pound of it. He himself is planning on forcing at least half a pound into Tim’s body, but he’s not deluded enough to think he could ever get more down.

            The fillet is massive, so he’ll still have leftovers even if they both eat more than expected – which will hopefully mean that Jason can force a bit more of it into Tim’s stomach without protest when they wake up in the morning.

            It’s only well after that thought strikes a pleasant chord of hope inside him that Jason realizes that if he CAN follow through, it means he’s still gonna be stuck in Tim’s body… which would mean that Plan A failed, and that they’re running down a deadline with no clue how to fix things… but even so… Assuming Timmers’ got a couple back ups in that big ol’ brain of his, maybe one more day in Tim’s body wouldn’t be awful… especially not if it means he could get a bit of self care started on the stupid little seal.

 

            Jason keeps all of that closely to himself, and simply falls into the mildness of the moment – savoring his fish and distracting his worries with Sokka’s epic one liners.

 

            The evening is pleasant enough and when they decide that they should go to sleep (trying to keep the timeframe of their unconsciousness as close as possible to the original swap), it’s not half as uncomfortable as it could be to intentionally build a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor and snuggle down beside each other.

            It’s the closest Jason’s ever slept to someone outside the Outlaws without utter exhaustion, and very little conscious choice in the matter, being the driving factors of it.

 

            Over all, it’s an odd sort of not uncomfortable and Jason drops into sleep far more easily than he’s ever been able to since he first came back to Gotham.

 

 

 

________

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI... I've had that bread conversation with my Significant Other, and it was too hilarious not to include SOMEWHERE, so I kinda smushed it in here. XD
> 
> NEXT TIME: Timmy's at his wits' end and running dry on good ideas. But a few terrible ideas might be just what he needs to get the job done. Oh, and he has an actual job to do, and a promise to keep with Steph... Because Tim apparently is a walking magnet for inconvenient Complications...  
> _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently aiming to post on the first and 11th, 13th, or 15th of every month (whichever works best in the week for me)!


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